


A Passion for the Absolute

by AMarguerite



Series: A Passion for the Absolute [1]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Bad Puns, M/M, Romance, Romantic Friendship, Romanticism, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-27
Updated: 2012-12-27
Packaged: 2017-11-22 16:30:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 11
Words: 85,387
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/611874
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AMarguerite/pseuds/AMarguerite
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Courfeyrac gets severely injured and turns to Enjolras, high priest of the ideal that he is, for a little illumination. Courfeyrac enlightens Enjolras in return. Featuring terrible puns, romantic and Romantic excesses, and the Battle of Hernani.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> There's a complicated joke with La Force here: if you thumbed your nose at Charles X's ordinances, you got sent to La Force. You also got sent there if you were an illegal prostitute.

In retrospect, thought Courfeyrac, leaping through the window of a second floor apartment off of the Rue de les Clefs and into the street behind the building, Combeferre had been right.

Combeferre was usually right, which made him so damn insufferable sometimes, because he didn't even bother to deconstruct one's arguments, he merely tossed off an aggravatingly apt one-liner and completely derailed the arguer without any real effort. But still, Combeferre had pointed out that after that duel with the ultraroyalist last Tuesday, Bahorel ought to lay low for a week instead of going to a sympathetic Polytechnicien who knew how to make gunpowder. Furthermore, it really wasn't necessary for the rest of them to make cartridges as soon as they had the powder and nothing Courfeyrac had to say about the new restrictions on the liberty of the press and the turning tide of political opinion had convinced him otherwise. Unfortunately, nothing Combeferre had had to say about police crack-downs or discretion being the better part of valor had convinced Courfeyrac, Jehan, Bahorel, Bossuet or Joly to find something else to do that evening, either, which had led to Courfeyrac's voluntary defenestration.

While Joly was off debriefing Enjolras on their progress, and to find out which worker's group had asked Enjolras for help attaining said cartridges, Courfeyrac, Jehan, Bahorel and Bossuet had discovered that their Polytechnicien had made two very large mistakes: one, he had bought saltpeter instead of sneaking it from the student laboratories (as he had with the sulfur), and two, he had mentioned in a café that he didn't see why wealthy landowners got two votes and your average worker got none. They did not seem like mistakes on the surface, and all of them, save Bahorel, had been extremely surprised to discover that the police had shoved those two pieces of evidence together to correctly conclude that the Polytechnicien was keen on armed revolt. The landlady's daughter, who had an embarrassingly obvious tendre for the Polytechnicien, had run up to inform them that her mother had let the police into the foyer. The landlady had been bewildered by the police questioning and had only said that the Polytechnicien who so interested the Sûreté had a couple of friends over, and Jehan interrupted to inform them all that he heard footsteps on the stairs.

Courfeyrac had then jumped out of the window with their unused flasks of gunpowder.

It was an extremely stupid thing to do in retrospect, but then again, the entire evening was stupid in retrospect. Hell, most of the things Courfeyrac did were stupid in retrospect. Retrospect was a lot like having a miniature Combeferre living inside his head to succinctly point out just where he had displayed the mental agility of a paraplegic walrus.

"Jehan, the cartridges!" hissed Courfeyrac, once he had scrambled to his feet.

Jehan appeared at the window, wide-eyed and slightly panicked. Behind him, the Polytechnicien shouted, "Knew I should have just decomposed urine, I knew it!"

"R-right," said Jehan. "Bossuet and Bahorel and are burning the pamphlets and pretending to make toast. Shall I come with you? The landlady said only a couple, so only two of us need to stay."

Courfeyrac began stuffing the flasks into the hidden, inside pockets of his coat. "Yes—stick the cartridges—"

Bahorel pulled Jehan aside and dropped a pillowcase full of cartridges down to Courfeyrac. "Got them? Here's your overcoat and hat—"

Courfeyrac lunged to grab them all, and then scurried out of the way as Jehan dropped gracelessly to the ground.

"Alright there?" asked Courfeyrac, pulling Jehan up by the elbow.

Jehan winced. "How did Satan manage it? Falls are quite painful."

"Though an application of blank verse," replied Courfeyrac, draping his overcoat around the pillowcase to hide it. "If we do not hurry, however, there shall be an application of vers, worms, very soon after our next fall."

"There is nothing terrifying in the grave," Jehan chided him, making his way down the street to the Rue Gracieuse. "It is a sublime sleep, a dreamy drop into the abyss, where the production of vers—" Courfeyrac was not sure if Prouvaire meant worms, verses or both "—is more natural than it ever was in life… ah ha, the street's clear."

The two of them made their way out onto the Rue Gracieuse and tried to look as casual as they could while Jehan was dressed like a Cossack and, despite the encroaching coolness of the fall weather, Courfeyrac was wearing his overcoat draped over his arm, as opposed to over his shoulders. Courfeyrac had to fight not to shiver.

There were not very many people out to notice them; it was a Friday evening, it was cold, and the cafés and bars in the nearby Rue Mouffetard were open. The bourgeois in the first floor apartments were lingering over desert before the ladies got up and left the gentlemen to their port and any footmen smoking by the servant's entrances had therefore disappeared inside to tidy themselves up to serve port and clear away the dishes.

"Rue Mouffetard," said Courfeyrac, immediately afterwards having to clench his teeth to keep them from chattering. "You know, this is colder than one of my aunt Mathilde's glares. If only this street were shorter! I feel the desperate need for a vin chaud."

"Are we being followed?" Jehan asked, glancing behind them.

Courfeyrac very casually slowed down, pretended to be lost, and made a careful survey of the street. There was a coachman, several doors down, chatting with some footmen, a bored stable boy keeping the carriage horses snorting and stamping in place, and… aw hell, a gendarme walking towards them. "As fast as we can off the street," muttered Courfeyrac.

"I wish Bahorel were here," said Jehan. "He hates to miss out on a scuffle."

Courfeyrac made a face. "I wish I shared his opinion. I promised myself so faithfully that I would not lose another hat this month, and I can never find mine once I've tipped it to a gendarme."

Jehan tugged Courfeyrac down the road. "Mouffetard is this way—as much as I hate to do it, we must lose ourselves in a sea of conformity and drunken law students."

"Oh, hell, and there's Joly and Enjolras… and Combeferre." Courfeyrac winced; they were at the tail end of the Rue Mouffetard, too, and there weren't any crowds in which one might lose oneself. "And he was right. Will he rub it in, or content himself with a pithy and enigmatic one-liner?"

"I do believe the gendarme is getting closer," said Jehan, intently studying the arching shadows he, Courfeyrac and the gendarme cast against the walls and cobblestones. "The shadow of death crosses our own. Courfeyrac, one of the masters in my lodge told me that Enjolras was already on some sort of list—"

"Saint-Michel, old fellow!" Courfeyrac exclaimed, looking pointedly at Enjolras, who had spotted them and begun moving forward from where he, Combeferre and Joly had clustered under the light of a hanging lamp. "You will never guess what followed me home—an old basset hound I have yet to shake off."

Enjolras, Combeferre and Joly caught on at once and checked their steps forward.

"Who are you again?" asked Joly.

"The rake that always drips ink all over my notes in Blondeau's lecture," replied Enjolras, feigning a disdainful look. "Ignore him, gentlemen."

"With pleasure," said Combeferre, pretending to stretch his arms above his head to point at the nearest alley. "I think we ought to call it a night after a final cigar."

"I think I have some," said Joly, making a huge production of searching his pockets as Courfeyrac tried to drag Jehan into a more populated part of the street and instead felt a hand on his shoulder.

Courfeyrac nearly dropped the cartridges. "Jesus!"

"Not quite," said the gendarme, examining Courfeyrac quite narrowly. "I thank you for the compliment, however."

"You are quite welcome," said Courfeyrac, trying out one of his more dazzling grins. "You scared the hell out of me—my mistress caught me in bed with her best friend and has been out for my blood for days. I jumped out of the window of my apartment earlier to try and avoid the lecture. I thought she had found me."

"You flatter me unduly," said the gendarme. "To avoid your mistress, you jumped out of a building on the Rue des Clefs?"

"Yes."

The gendarme had not removed his hand from Courfeyrac's shoulder, which made Courfeyrac extremely uncomfortable, and now looked at Jehan. "And just brought a friend along with you?"

"Or rather, the best friend," said Courfeyrac, much to Jehan's surprise. Courfeyrac winked at the gendarme and lowered his voice conspiratorially. "Charming girl, lets me dress her up how I want, no matter what odd fancy takes me—"

"Your mistress is rather mannish."

"Ouch. That is a fair point, but in the dark it doesn't matter that her face is a little… eh."

"Oh, you cad!" Jehan squeaked, burying his face in his hands. "You were the one who wanted me to cross-dress! I told you it wasn't becoming; I told you everyone would think I was a boy, but nooooo, if it was good enough for Shakespeare's heroines…!"

The gendarme remained skeptical. "So you have no saltpeter on your person?"

"With all the romantic drama," replied Courfeyrac, "I am likely to end up in the Saltpeterie."

"Or perhaps, with your history, simply La Force," replied the gendarme, pulling Courfeyrac into an alley. "That was an entertaining drama, Monsieur Talma, but I advise you to study Coleridge's essay on willing suspension of belief."

Courfeyrac's felt his smile become somewhat forced. "It is, I admit, a little difficult to believe, but—"

"But I believe the officer on duty will find it even more difficult to believe," replied the gendarme. "Come with me."

"I would rather not," said Courfeyrac, as Jehan exchanged very panicked looks with Joly down the street. Combeferre gestured wildly to the right. Courfeyrac took a moment to break eye contact with the far-too-clever gendarme; there was an alley on his right, badly lit and currently occupied by a drunken student who had been groping his way along the wall to find a way home and was currently baffled by the sudden lack of brick.

"Your preferences," said the gendarme, with a pointed look at Jehan, "have no relevance in this particular decision. I know you have something under your overcoat there. Either hand it over now, or submit to a search that will result in me taking your teeth as well your illegal pamphlets."

Courfeyrac very much did not want to go to prison, and had some difficulty explaining this to the gendarme who, with the vice-like grip featured in the trashy gothic novels that made up the bulk of Courfeyrac's library, began trying to drag Courfeyrac down the street.

"—really have the wrong idea about me; libertinism and liberalism are not interchangeable—"

"Oh, definitely La Force," said the gendarme, shoving the drunken student out of the way and causing said student to drop his bottle of wine on the ground, where it shattered. The student cursed, but stumbled off, and the gendarme, instead of taking the opportunity of shoving Courfeyrac against the wall, cursed and leapt back from the breakage, lest the wine splatter over his uniform. Courfeyrac took the opportunity to tug the gendarme sharply to the right. The gendarme stumbled, releasing Jehan in an attempt to keep his balance. Jehan whirled to the side and reached quickly under Courfeyrac's overcoat.

"Run," hissed Courfeyrac, jamming the cartridges into Jehan's hands. In a fit of fortuitous sartorial non-conformity, Jehan had worn a Cossack overcoat, capable of hiding any number of pillowcases stuffed with cartridges, and stuffed their pillowcase down the front of it. He dashed off, arms clutched around himself. It was an odd, amusing image, and Courfeyrac found himself smiling when he ought to have been watching for angry policemen.

"Move!" Enjolras quite suddenly grabbed him by the arm and pulled Courfeyrac to the side.

Combeferre had later explained, in the calm, dispassionate doctoral tones he used when he was having particular difficulty controlling his emotions, that the gendarme had stood up, releasing Courfeyrac, and pulled out a gun, which he had then aimed at Jehan. Courfeyrac vaguely remembered that, or rather, had the sudden flash of odd knowing that, as he was stumbling, the gendarme was doing something and Jehan was in trouble so he, Courfeyrac, had to do something. This ended up being a really idiotic lunge forward just as the gendarme pulled the trigger.

Because Enjolras had pulled Courfeyrac to the side, the bullet embedded itself in Courfeyrac's thigh as opposed to his stomach, but Courfeyrac, his leg giving way underneath him, toppled forward and landed on the bottle shards.

At the time, however, Courfeyrac had not been aware of any of this. The gendarme had moved, Courfeyrac had been under the sudden, immediate impression that Jehan was in trouble, and, there was a sudden, searing pain and oh God what pain and his thigh was on fire and Jesus Christ, what the hell was that, and… oh, that was glass and that was that blood, God damn it, it really was blood, it was blood and he couldn't stand up and God his leg hurt and oh God it hurt and even though he was on the ground with his hat off again (God damn it, couldn't he keep a hat for more than a day?) and he was clutching at his leg but the blood was pouring out and God it hurt and it shouldn't be bleeding like this and he had to clench his teeth to keep from crying out—

"Drop your weapon," said Enjolras and Courfeyrac belatedly realized that there had been some sort of scuffle. Enjolras was breathing heavily, which almost never happened. "Firing on an unarmed civilian—you have five seconds to drop your weapon."

"Who are you to—"

"Three."

The gendarme cursed, but he had fired already and it was too dark to reload his gun.

"One."

"Are you—"

"Your time is up," said Enjolras, and, by the sounds of it, provided some very convincing nonverbal arguments as to why the gendarme should drop his weapon. Courfeyrac was not entirely sure what happened after that, as someone turned him over, and he caught a whiff of carbolic soap.

Ah, Joly and Combeferre, medical students to the rescue, Courfeyrac thought, grasping desperately at any sort of wit he could.

Joly chattered away nervously. "The shops are all closed at this time of night and we were the only ones on the street. No one saw except the drunk, and even then I doubt he really believed anything he saw—"

"Where does it hurt?" asked Combeferre, putting a hand on Courfeyrac's forehead, to feel for contusions or concussions.

"Oh, deep down in my soul," said Courfeyrac. "I have lost another hat and I promised myself so faithfully that I would keep this one."

"Stable, conscious, bullet wound to the right thigh," muttered Joly, gently lifting away Courfeyrac's hands. "And… good God, Courfeyrac, what did you manage to do here? There are glass shards in your leg."

"Do not probe blindly," said Combeferre. "You might dislodge the blot-clot slowing the flow—there's more light closer to the wall. No, do not try to stand Courfeyrac—Joly help me drag him."

Joly and Combeferre set to work at once, Combeferre with a sort of snap into seriousness that would have been amusing if Courfeyrac's leg had not hurt like hell, and Joly with a sort of chattering, twittering anxiety that was fortunately manifesting itself as rapid-fire action. Joly pushed Courfeyrac against the wall, wading up his overcoat behind Courfeyrac's head for comfort, and began patting his waistcoat pockets.

"Light, light, where are my lucifers—"

Courfeyrac coughed slightly at the smell and shielded his eyes from the sudden flare of light. The light from the streetlamp was dim; Joly and Combeferre had not wanted to risk anyone passing by to see Courfeyrac. The little flame from the lucifer flickered madly, sending odd shadows across Joly's worried face and Combeferre's calm one.

"Where exactly were you hit?" asked Combeferre, peering closely at Courfeyrac's leg. "Tourniquet—"

Enjolras appeared, tore off his cravat and thrust it into Combeferre's hand. Combeferre managed to slide the cravat around Courfeyrac's thigh as Joly wiped aside the blood from the wound with his handkerchief.

"Awful lot of blood, but no gushing, so the bullet and the glass shards missed the artery," Joly said, with a glance at Combeferre to make sure he hadn't misdiagnosed. Combeferre nodded, pulling the cravat tight around Courfeyrac's thigh. Courfeyrac let out a hiss of pain.

"It will slow the bleeding," explained Combeferre. "Enjolras, I trust that the gendarme did not prove so hard-headed that you actually had to beat some sense into him?" Enjolras didn't say anything, but Combeferre sighed and said, "A head injury, I suppose?"

"Not a major one," replied Enjolras, taking the lucifers Joly poured into his open hands and lighting one. Combeferre did some godawfully painful thing to Courfeyrac's thigh and Courfeyrac could not keep himself from letting out a yelp only slightly manlier than the sounds his seven-year-old nieces made when they saw spiders.

"Entry wound to inner aspect, medial side, thigh swollen, bleeding slowing and mostly from superficial wounds from glass, aside from…." Combeferre glanced at the largest shard, embedded in the top of Courfeyrac's thigh. Courfeyrac looked too and began feeling nauseous. The glass shard wasn't particularly large but gleamed wetly, and rather darkly, with blood and just rose out of his leg where it had no right do so.

"I do not want to remove it here, but it… missed the artery at least. Ah, the artery. The femoral pulse—Courfeyrac, with your permission?"

Courfeyrac nodded and, though he had to bite his lip to keep from making any noise, sat stoically as Combeferre laid his head on Courfeyrac's thigh.

Joly tapped Courfeyrac's ankle. "Did you feel that?"

"… yes?"

"No nerve damage then, just soft tissue, I hope." Joly rubbed his nose. "Percussion of the leg, Combeferre? I thought that only worked with the chest."

"There is an artery in the leg," replied Combeferre. He had taken out his watch and Enjolras, without being asked, very calmly held a lucifer closer to Combeferre's watch. "The same principles apply. If you will allow it, Courfeyrac, I need to check your other leg to make sure the pulse is the same."

"By all means," said Courfeyrac.

"Joly, go find the gun and then see if you can hail a hackney. Give me your flask first—what do you have in it?"

"Brandy," replied Joly, fumbling in his pockets again. He unearthed his flask, spilling some of its contents in his haste to open it and said, "It's a good year—make sure you savor it."

Joly took off, leaving Courfeyrac to try and drain the flask in one go, and Combeferre to sigh disapprovingly.

Courfeyrac leaned his head against the wall, grateful for Joly's coat, and made himself breathe as evenly as he could. God damn, his leg hurt though. It was hard to think at all, let alone think of something clever to say. He tried to tell himself the plot of the lurid Gothic novel he had read the previous evening, and ended up at the point where the dashing hero (who looked rather like Courfeyrac, in Courfeyrac's mental retelling) rescued the virtuous but otherwise characterless heroine for the third time when he realized that Enjolras and Combeferre had been talking about him.

"—too much of a risk."

"Combeferre, you yourself said that this would require surgery. I trust you and Joly, but do you have the instruments necessary for something of this delicacy?"

"We could try to sneak him into my rooms at Necker," Combeferre said dubiously, "but what would we say, that Courfeyrac had… gotten into a bar brawl? He's on the watch list, there are bound to be police around soon, looking for a potential rebel on the Rue Mouffetard, which rules out Saint-Genevieve down the street—and even if we do get him away before the police notice, if I bring in someone treated for a gunshot wound—"

"There are gendarmes at the end of the street," said Joly, panting, his voice nearly overpowered by the rattle of a fiacre. "They heard the gunshot I suppose, as did some of the residents. There are open windows, but no one's come out and I doubt anyone knows where the gunshot came from. I think Jehan's safe, or at least, hiding somewhere. The fiacre's here."

Enjolras said, "Combeferre, get in the fiacre and go to Necker. Get your supplies, but wait a few minutes and exit the hospital as unobtrusively as you can. Meet us…."

"At my apartment?" offered Joly.

"Ah, a decoy as well as a doctor?" murmured Courfeyrac, because God his leg hurt and he was desperate to stop thinking about it. "Combeferre, old friend, you are too kind."

Combeferre squeezed Courfeyrac's hand. "I will be back as soon as I can."

Courfeyrac opened his eyes to watch Combeferre stand and head towards the fiacre, pausing just long enough for Joly to say, "Go, go, I know the Rue Mouffetard. I mean, not as well as Grantaire, but I know it. If we go down this way we will reach the rue Nouveau de Saint Genevieve and catch a fiacre there or by the hospital, or even on the Rue d'Ulm if Courfeyrac can stand the walk."

"What a terrible pun," said Courfeyrac, pulling Joly's overcoat out from behind his head and handing it over. "Go, Combeferre. The police have not entirely cut my feet out from under me."

"Keep the fiacre there until we have made some progress," Enjolras added in an undertone, briefly clasping Combeferre's forearm.

Combeferre nodded and exited the alley. Courfeyrac began trying to lever himself into a standing position without putting any weight on his leg. "Where is your apartment again, Jolllly?"

"The Hotel Saint-Jacques—promise not to seduce Musichetta away, Courfeyrac?"

"Your mistress lives with you, Jolllly? How shameless."

"Yes, she does. We spend every night together anyways, and, as she pointed out, I shall have you know, it's far cheaper to pay for one apartment than two. I know you never mean to do it, Courfeyrac, but do promise you won't steal her away? You just have that effect on women and I'm positively mad for the girl still."

"I object, Jolllly. Warning me off, when Bossuet flirts with her dreadfully?"

Joly turned a little pink. "Bossuet's different."

"Ah, how diplomatically you say that I am better looking than he is."

"No that's—Courfeyrac?"

Courfeyrac had stood well enough, but stumbled as soon as he tried to take a step away from the wall. He could not put any weight on his leg at all, and his head was swimming as if he had gotten into a drinking contest with Grantaire. Courfeyrac felt Joly's hand on his shoulder, keeping him up, and then an arm around his waist that Courfeyrac rather dazedly assumed was Bossuet, because wherever there was Joly, there was Bossuet and because when Courfeyrac massively overindulged, he always had Joly and Bossuet flanking him, stumbling a little, but swapping witticisms with great spirit.

"Fine," Courfeyrac tried to say. "A little… ha, lend me your ls—" or 'ailes', 'wings' "—Jolllly, my dear fellow. After our little spat with the government, I find I have but one leg to stand on."

He felt Joly slide neatly under one arm. Joly was a head shorter than Courfeyrac and always fit so precisely under his arm; Courfeyrac could lean his cheek against the top of Joly's head when he was feeling affectionate from inebriation. The height difference was less noticeable with Bossuet, but Courfeyrac lost track of the comparison he had wanted to make because he had tried to put some weight on his right leg and dear God was that a bad idea. There was Joly, under his left arm, as it should be, smelling of carbolic soap and brandy, and there was… there was not a Bossuet under his right, in a threadbare old coat. There was hair. That meant it was not Bossuet and dear God, his leg hurt.

"I am not drunk enough to handle all of this," said Courfeyrac, "and my flasks are full of gunpowder."

"Future generations shall praise your sacrifice," said Enjolras. Courfeyrac could not quite tell if Enjolras was amused or not and realized, somewhat stupidly, that Enjolras had very calmly draped Courfeyrac's right arm around his shoulders and put his arm around Courfeyrac's waist. Courfeyrac began feeling very stupid, which was never a pleasant emotion, and which, furthermore, was even less pleasant when mixed with the god awful pain in his leg.

Courfeyrac did not know why he hadn't thought Enjolras would be supporting him and blamed it on the fact that it was getting incredibly hard to think of anything but the sheer amount of pain he was in. It was making him think of really stupid things, like how, when they had first met, Courfeyrac had mistaken Enjolras's usual, half-dreamy abstraction as total reserve and assumed that Enjolras did not liked to be touched or to touch other people, and therefore would not have his arm around Courfeyrac's waist.

However, Enjolras's arm was there and Courfeyrac was starting to feel vaguely delirious because oh God did it hurt to move. He clenched his teeth and tried to force himself to think of something else. Enjolras's hair—in need of a trim again, Enjolras always forgot to go and get it cut—brushed Courfeyrac's cheek. Ah, there was something. Enjolras.

Enjolras was surprisingly tactile. He could convey so much with a touch on the shoulder, a quick tug on the arm, a handclasp. It had surprised Courfeyrac at first, because Enjolras was, to Courfeyrac's mind, very reserved. He did not move unless necessary, he did not speak unless he had something to say. There was always a wall between Enjolras and the rest of the world that one could only scale by mentioning the Republic. The Republic grounded Enjolras in reality; it gave him a context for the ideals that he so powerfully embodied. One talked with such a man, one admired such a man, one argued and teased and faithfully followed such a man, but one did not touch him. Courfeyrac, though unthinkingly affectionate and far too willing to drape himself over people or fling his arms around their necks, tried to hold himself back around Enjolras. It was fine to ruffle Prouvaire's hair, or lean his head against Bossuet's shoulder, or to drape himself over Combeferre's shoulders like some sort of extraordinarily fashionable cape, but one did not do the same things with Enjolras. It would not only be a faux pas of the most unforgivable sort, it would be almost a violation of his trust.

Courfeyrac had thus been unspeakably pleased when Enjolras of his own volition, had, a few weeks into their friendship, touched Courfeyrac on the inside of his wrist as an unspoken invitation to speak privately. Courfeyrac often communicated by gesture, but had never before realized that Enjolras did too, albeit in gestures springing from the soul as opposed to gestures springing from the heart, and began responding in kind. It was a careful business—a bisous instead of a nod and a smile in greeting, a quick re-parting of Enjolras's hair when the wind blew it out of order, a press of the hand to show his earnestness, a tap on the shoulder instead of an, 'Enjolras!' to gain his attention—but a successful one.

Enjolras now smiled when Courfeyrac linked arms with him and dragged him on a stroll around the Luxemburg, and he had, to Courfeyrac's intense delight, begun to automatically offer his cheek to be kissed whenever he saw Courfeyrac coming.

It was odd, Courfeyrac thought, how all those little gestures from an Enjolras, high and lofty, cloaking himself with the shining purity of his ideals, could make a Courfeyrac, so unrepentantly earthy, so happy. It was more than acknowledgment on Enjolras's part of Courfeyrac's way of interacted with the world. It was an acceptance and an adaptation of it and it heartened Courfeyrac more than he could say that Enjolras, of all people, understood him.

"We ought to risk the fiacre here," said Enjolras, as they paused at the end of the alley. Courfeyrac slumped gratefully against Enjolras, in a vague approximation of an embrace.

Joly very carefully slid out from underneath Courfeyrac's left arm, making sure that Enjolras could bear Courfeyrac's weight before running off for a fiacre. Courfeyrac, his arms around Enjolras's shoulders, buried his face into the collar of Enjolras's overcoat.

Enjolras had his arms around Courfeyrac's waist and tightened his hold. After a moment, he pressed his cheek to the top of Courfeyrac's head.

He said nothing, but it was, perhaps, better that way. Courfeyrac was too tired to talk which, in and of itself, was a serious sign that something was wrong, and was pathetically grateful for the bit of human contact. Whenever he was depressed or unhappy or sick Courfeyrac became almost desperately tactile. He had to touch, to embrace, and to curl up with someone in his arms to remind him it was alright, he wasn't alone and he was loved.

Courfeyrac wanted to thank Enjolras but he couldn't find the words. He briefly squeezed Enjolras around the shoulders instead, which Enjolras seemed to understand, as he held Courfeyrac more tightly in acknowledgement.

Courfeyrac heard Joly's footsteps, light, quick and a little erratic, and then the steadier clop of horse hooves. "Have one, come on," said Joly. "Thank you Enjolras—here, Courfeyrac, put an arm around my shoulders again—there we are and… damn, the steps. I'll climb up first and help pull you in, I suppose."

They did as Joly suggested, which worked, but caused Courfeyrac to slump down against the cracked leather of the carriage seat and long, Jehan-like, for the chill embrace of death. The fiacre jolted unevenly over the cobblestones. Courfeyrac kept his eyes closed and began to feel his grasp on consciousness slipping away.

"I thank you most sincerely for your solicitude, gentlemen," said Courfeyrac, in the most aristocratically gracious tones he could manage, "but I fear I must repay your kind company with remarkable rudeness and pass out."

Courfeyrac promptly did so.


	2. Chapter Two

Courfeyrac managed to shiver himself awake. The hem of his shirt was rubbing against his thigh, which hurt dreadfully, and he was cold. He groped for the blanket he kept at the end of his bed and realized that he was not at home. Courfeyrac then began groping for the girl that ought, by rights, to be next to him.

He closed his hand around something—a hair rat? No, too solid to be a hair rat. Courfeyrac opened his eyes. A magnet?

"I am  _not_ that much of an idiot," Courfeyrac said, burying his face in a pillow that smelled of carbolic soap and perfume. He tried vaguely to pierce together his evening. "I am not that bad a friend. I did not—"

"No, you did not," came the amused voice of Musichetta.

Courfeyrac glanced up from the pillow to see her sitting by the bed in an armchair, sewing up his trousers. She looked exotically pretty, wrapped up in pretty, vaguely oriental shawls with her dark hair falling out of her braid and her hazel eyes gleaming in the lamplight. There was just a hint of green in her eyes when she smiled. She tied off her thread, snipped off the extra and showed Courfeyrac the neat circle of stitches in the leg of his breeches. "I managed to get the blood out, and, in a thoroughly impressive bit of medical skill, Joly's friend… what's-his-name, the other medical student, managed to get me the bit of cloth the ball had trapped in your leg."

"That is disgusting and amazing all at once," said Courfeyrac. "I am sorry to keep you up with that."

"It's not a problem," said Musichetta, folding up his trousers. "I always calm myself by doing the mending, and besides, I stitched up your leg, too." She grinned at him wickedly. "I enjoyed that far more than I should have. I shall keep myself from saying anything your mistresses have already told you, but if I wasn't sure Joly would fling himself into the Seine if I left him…."

Courfeyrac laughed. "Ah, and here he specifically asked me  _not_ to seduce you away from him. Where is the fellow?"

"Obsessively realigning the furniture in the main room and talking to… Ange something? The one who looks as if he climbed out of a stained glass window and took the halo with him. I spent ten minutes just staring at his hair earlier. What does he use on it to get it to shine like that? The medical student who provided the patch in your trousers is taking a well-earned rest in Bossuet's room. Oh, are you feeling alright? You started waking up just after… oh, what's his name, the one Joly's always gushing about. The other medical student. He managed to take out all the glass, you started stirring, then Joly panicked and dosed you with nitrous oxide."

Courfeyrac blinked. "Were you out of brandy?"

"To be honest, yes."

Courfeyrac grinned. "That's Jolllly for you, always trying to force good spirits on the rest of us. I am horribly cold, but otherwise fine." Courfeyrac then chose to sit up and move his thigh around to prove his point, which was one of the stupider things he had done in an evening that included voluntary defenestration and running in front of a policeman about to fire a gun. "I take that back. Ow."

Musichetta offered him a rueful smile. "You do have a couple of stitches, remember, and Joly told me that one does not stitch up a bullet wound, so that's still open."

"How charming," said Courfeyrac, once the pain in his thigh had faded into a dull throb. "I think they are still bleeding."

"Or you just reopened your wounds?" asked Musichetta.

"I prefer the former," replied Courfeyrac, lifting the bed sheet to check. "I think I have spoiled your bed linen quite unforgivably, but if that has not earned your disdain, let us pretend I have been bleeding the whole time. It makes me seem as if I have some semblance of sense and self-preservation."

Musichetta laughed, which caused one of her shawls to slide down and reveal what was, to Courfeyrac's mind, a very welcome glimpse of décolletage. "If the application of fiction will heal the wounds to your pride, then so be it. Shall I go fetch Joly?"

Courfeyrac nodded. "And I hate to put you out again, when I have commandeered both your bed and your bedfellow, but, ah… it is dreadfully cold."

Musichetta pulled off one of her gypsy-like shawls and draped it over Courfeyrac's head. "Hold onto that until I can go investigate the linen closet and figure out of Bossuet managed to cut any firewood or if his fingers got in the way again."

"I really do hate to put you out like this," said Courfeyrac, trying to figure out just how to wear a shawl and retain some trace of masculinity.

"I don't mind in the slightest," she replied, taking pity on him and tugging the shawl off his head, so that his resemblance to a babushka came to a welcome end. "I like taking care of people. If I didn't enjoy coddling invalids, I would hardly be living with Joly, would I?"

"Fair point," agreed Courfeyrac. "Some water, oh Hestia, goddess of hearth and home?"

"Your allusion is off- say… Rebecca instead, going off to the well?"

Courfeyrac flung an end of the shawl over his shoulder dramatically. "Say, Iris, adorned in all colors, off to fetch… I suppose Apollo would be the most apt, but Joly's not really… Enjolras is more of an Apollo. Hm, well, there went my extended metaphor."

"Cheer up," said Musichetta, with a mischievous gleam in her hazel eyes, "it wasn't that wonderful of an extended metaphor to begin with and ought to have been put down at the outset. The best thing to do is let it die a natural death."

"Fair enough."

Musichetta returned with Joly and Enjolras, the former of whom seemed far too relieved that Courfeyrac was alive.

"Was there some doubt that I wasn't?" asked Courfeyrac.

Joly hesitated just a moment too long. "I… well, no, not really, since you're magnetically aligned with the poles, so your humors ought to be circulating correctly."

Though there was a coal stove in the main room, there was still a fireplace in Joly's bedroom. Enjolras stood by it, his hair gleaming in the flickering light, and looked thoughtfully at Courfeyrac. Courfeyrac looked back at Enjolras, with a somewhat forced smile.

"You are well," said Enjolras, with just a hint of uncertainty.

"More or less," replied Courfeyrac. "Is there any more wood to throw open the fire? I am devilishly cold."

"Devilishly?" asked Joly, feeling Courfeyrac's forehead and frowning.

"Yes. The devil is trapped in ice, you know, gnawing on the head of Judas Iscariot and… I know that expression. You are attempting to hide something from me."

"No," Joly said, with the guilty look he always got when he was lying. "It… nothing."

"You felt my forehead and looked guilty. I have a fever?"

"… yes."

"Is that a bad sign?"

Joly hesitated. "We… performed the surgery relatively quickly, bound up your leg in bandages as soon as Musichetta sewed you up—Combeferre was exhausted by that point, since bits of the bullet and your trousers remained in your leg while the bullet itself passed through, and I was trying to get the nitrous oxide dosage correct so that you wouldn't thrash around and make the surgery harder, since we didn't have enough people to hold you down—and… you did bleed a lot, so your humors oughtn't to be so out of balance your excess blood is giving you a fever."

Courfeyrac pulled a face. "I suppose you are going to leech me, then?"

"Come, come Courfeyrac, there's nothing wrong with leeches. God makes corrections all through nature the time. Upon seeing that man had too much blood, God realized his mistake and thus invented the leech."

"How fortunate for us," said Courfeyrac. "I just happen to think they are disgusting."

"But useful. Close your eyes if it makes you feel better. I have no idea about the firewood, but I do have a jar of leeches in my desk. Perhaps… hm, electricity is stored in the muscles of the legs; if that has been released into the body it most likely excited the blood… ah, no wonder you have a fever then. Some leeching and all will be well."

Courfeyrac grimaced. "I am bleeding already. Can we just eliminate the leeches altogether?"

"You are really bleeding?" asked Joly, with some alarm. "If you will permit me…?"

Courfeyrac nodded and Joly pulled back the sheets to see the now rather blood-stained bandage on Courfeyrac's thigh.

"That's not a good sign is it?" When Joly smiled sickly in lieu of a response, Courfeyrac pressed on. "So I have a fever when logically I oughtn't to, and am bleeding when I oughtn't to—"

"Which might just be the body self-correcting," said Joly, turning to the bedside table, opening a drawer and pulling out several handkerchiefs. "It is ridding itself of excess blood. Besides, if the blood has been excited by the release of the electricity stored in your leg muscles, then it is… not… euh…."

A little tentatively: "Joly, I am going to be alright, aren't I?"

Joly's smile seemed to crack. "I…." He rubbed his nose furiously. "I  _hope_ so, Courfeyrac. I… here, let me put the leeches on then re-bind your wounds. That will help, and… I suppose we could put magnets at the end of the bed to try and keep your humors flowing correctly through your body. Richard Mead has it that there is an invisible magnetic fluid flowing through the body, and Mesmer tells us one only needs to manipulate this fluid to heal—and D'Elson tells us that the body has poles, like the earth or a magnet. I know one out to balance a fever with a cooling agent… are you hungry? Cold and dry foods… we ought to have some fruit around, though I have no idea what is in the cupboard at any given time. Musichetta?"

She stuck her head around the doorframe, her messy braid swinging around her shoulder. "I could poach a pear if you wanted it. Joly's father sent some fruit from his greenhouse."

"I ought to get shot in the thigh more often," said Courfeyrac, though he felt so god-awful he couldn't quite manage a smile. "I haven't been this coddled since I was twelve."

"You ought to have  _cold and dry_  food," Joly said reprovingly. "One must keep the humors in balance, you know, aligning yourself with the magnetic poles isn't enough on its own."

"You are simply jealous that Musichetta has a much more attractive patient than usual," Courfeyrac replied breezily. He still couldn't manage a smile, but he did manage a superior look. "You ought to just accept—ow, ow Jesus  _Christ_!"

"You oughtn't to toy with the man changing your bandages," Joly replied, rather smugly. Musichetta blew him a kiss and disappeared in search of more blankets. Joly released the ends of the bandage and began examining the wound. Courfeyrac was alarmed to see he was going to have not one, but two, but three fairly noticeable scars, and sulked while Joly helpfully pointed out the entry and exit wounds of the bullet, and the cut to the muscle made by the largest shard of glass. "It was a clean cut to the skin, with only slight damage to the muscle," Joly said, pointing at the neat row of stitches. "The bullet was worse and you just dislodged the scab, so you will certainly have a scar there."

Courfeyrac sulked.

"I'll set the leeches near the bullet wound to draw out any bad blood there. If that doesn't help, we can cut open a vein—though an open vein might be such a wound to your vanity it would all be in vain to try and make you feel sanguine after that—"

"I am revoking your pun privileges," said Courfeyrac, "until you learn not to abuse them."

Joly grinned in response and left to get the leeches. Courfeyrac shut his eyes for that—he knew there was nothing wrong with leeches, but they still spooked him—and gritted his teeth until it was over. The bloodletting had left him oddly enervated, however, and he flung an arm over his eyes.

"The fever ought to go down shortly," said Joly, who was doing something odd with magnets that Courfeyrac was too exhausted to understand. "At least… by morning everything will have… resolved itself."

Courfeyrac closed his eyes again. He did not know quite what else to do. He felt so genuinely  _awful_ and his leg hurt and he was still cold, even though Enjolras, in his quiet, competent way had found the firewood in the apartment and built up the fire and Musichetta had bestowed all the winter blankets upon him.

He didn't like Joly's phrasing either—resolve itself? What did that even  _mean_?

Did it—

That particular thought was too disturbing to be put into words. Courfeyrac, with an insidious, only half-defined fear that he was not going to move again, shifted restlessly until he felt better and ended up only alarming Joly and nearly re-opening his wound.

"Here," Joly said, shoving a pillow under Courfeyrac's right knee. "Lie face down if you must, but stop thrashing about like a dying fish while I am trying to magnetically fix the misalignment of your humors."

"Odd that, as I feel quite drained of all humor." Courfeyrac clutched the other pillow to his chest with one arm, and tried to calm himself down. Infelicitous choice of words from Joly, yes, but that didn't mean—it was not certain….

Courfeyrac flung out his other arm, just to reassure himself that it still worked, and felt someone take his hand. Courfeyrac looked up and saw Enjolras sitting by the bed, with a quiet, reassuring smile. Courfeyrac buried his face in the pillow and clung to Enjolras's hand with unseemly desperation. There-that was real, that was solid, that was Enjolras, the marble pillar upon which they all leaned, the man who knew them so intimately and still seemed to like them anyways.

Eventually Joly finished whatever he was doing with the magnets, fussed with Courfeyrac's blankets and appeared to run out of things to do. Sounding like he was at something of a loss, Joly said, "Well, it… get some sleep."

"You ought to sleep as well," said Enjolras, releasing Courfeyrac's hand. "I am fine; I can stay up and watch over Courfeyrac." When Joly hesitated Enjolras said, "You advised Combeferre to rest; I advise you to do the same."

Courfeyrac vaguely remembered that, through his haze of chemically-induced euphoria that, alas, faded as soon as he properly woken up, he had heard Joly add something about there being nothing else to be done, so Combeferre might as well get some sleep. Courfeyrac sincerely hoped that it had been a hallucination brought on by chemical experimentation.

Joly fussed with Courfeyrac's blankets again and said, "Well, if… I'm just in the other room with Musichetta if you need anything. Or if I can do anything at all…."

"You and Musichetta… Bossuet's not back?" asked Courfeyrac, glancing up.

Joly's expression seemed to crumble in on itself. "No, I haven't seen him since we I left the Rue de les Clefs. We haven't had word from him." Joly appeared to realize it was not possible to straighten the blankets anymore because Courfeyrac was under them and gave up on the attempt. "Jehan's alright, though. Feuilly figured out that a gunshot probably meant an injury and a retreat to my apartment. He sent over a gamin. Musichetta fed him… I'm babbling, sorry. I'll go… sleep. Yes. You ought to too Courfeyrac. It will do you good." Joly beat a retreat into the sitting room and closed the door after him.

Courfeyrac tried to put his head down and rest, but was terrified that, if he fell asleep, he would not wake up again. Perhaps he dozed- he certainly lost any semblance of coherent thought. There were only vague fears he could not quite allay by being sarcastic, and odd worries—like, where were his parents? He probably ought to write them. His monthly letter was late, as per usual—would they even get a letter in time? But in time for what—was he really…?

He felt a hand on the top of his head and then heard Enjolras ask, quietly, calmly, "Courfeyrac, are you alright?"

"I think I am going to die," Courfeyrac said, shivering uncontrollably. "What a terribly stupid way to die, too. No blaze of glory on a barricade, no ringing denunciation in a law court and a crowd of women weeping as the gleam goes out of my green eyes, no swarms of spoiled grandchildren squabbling over my property and the by-election for the new National Assembly, no distraught mistress to help smother me to death in her bosom, just a bullet in my leg and my parents in the Midi somewhere and Joly having a nervous breakdown in the other room because I asked him if I was going to be alright and he didn't have an answer to give me. Am I going to die?"

Enjolras had no answer either, but he took Courfeyrac's hand between his own and chafed it until it was warm again.

"What a way to die," said Courfeyrac, trying to smile and failing miserably. "Well, I have Jolllly to give me wings and you to be my  _Ange-_ aux-graces, no matter how grammatically incorrect that is, and Bossuet… if he ever returns, poor, unlucky fellow, to compose the orations at my funeral. A man can ask for no better friends." Courfeyrac shivered again. He felt so  _awful_. How could a person ever feel this awful? "Please talk to me Enjolras. I can't bear to be inside my head right now."

Enjolras looked at Courfeyrac's hand, clasping his own so desperately, and said, "What would… Courfeyrac, we none of us can know the future. We can try to see it, we can try to build our present so that it embraces the lessons of the past, so that it corrects the flaws we have dragged with us by neglecting our history—but we can only be sure that we march along the road of progress—you are shivering."

"I am very cold," said Courfeyrac, struggling to sit up. He sort of managed it, with Enjolras's help, and shifted around so the blankets fell over his lap. "I did not mean to interrupt your speech. It seemed to be a good one. Now that you are paused, however, would you mind very much attending to a less spiritual thirst and giving me the water Musichetta left me on the table?"

Enjolras did so, and Courfeyrac tried very hard to keep his hands from shaking as he took the glass. Enjolras did not say anything, or show any sign that he had noticed, but he quietly placed his hand around Courfeyrac's trembling one, to hold the cup steady. Enjolras took the cup again once Courfeyrac had finished.

"Can I do anything else for you?" asked Enjolras, sitting on the edge of the bed, near Courfeyrac.

"Speak frivolously to me," Courfeyrac said, because he wondered if Enjolras could do so.

Enjolras was startled into a smile. "I do not have your talent for it."

"No? What a rare opportunity. I shall instruct you, then. Pick one of the wonderful, transient things that please you about living and tell me what it is."

" _Franterité._ "

Courfeyrac snorted. "Ah, it's a start. Do you have brothers?"

"Yes- you, Combeferre, Jehan, Bahorel, Bossuet, Joly, Feuilly—"

Courfeyrac almost managed a smile. "Blood relations."

"No."

"Sisters?"

"None."

"Ah, you must have been a lonely child. Were you like Prouvaire, with only your books and your tutor as company, or did you go to school?"

"I boarded, yes." Enjolras seemed to realize that something more was required of him and said, "You called me  _ange-_ aux-graces earlier. I used to be called… something like that in school." He smiled faintly and inclined his blond head. "My hair used to curl into ringlets."

"That is unbearably charming," said Courfeyrac. "Was it really ange-aux-graces?"

"Not exactly. I was also extremely fat."

"Ha! Ange-au-gras?"

"Yes, at least until I turned fourteen and couldn't seem to keep weight on; I still cannot."

"Because you forget to eat," Courfeyrac said reprovingly. "I would bet a franc that when you were fourteen you stumbled across the Declaration of the Rights of Man and Citizen, or some volume of Rousseau."

Enjolras smiled. "It was a collection of Robespierre's speeches."

"Ha! And I know you are a fencer, that's how I met you, at the school on the Rue de Cotte, and you kept running into Bahorel at a boxing school… ah, you must have been marvelous. Not that you are not now, but I hope you had kindly Jesuits. Or rather, indifferent ones."

"The Jesuits were never the problem," replied Enjolras.

"The other boys?"

Enjolras hesitated. "Yes. I never learned to turn the other cheek. I punched."

Courfeyrac burst out laughing. "Enjolras, you are beyond hope of salvation. Everyone in boarding school kisses each other. There are no women to be had. Everyone kisses boys at some point; the Jesuits always told us that yes, everyone did it, even they did it to the prettier altar boys, which we weren't allowed to tell our parents, but when one kisses a boy, one ought to have the decency to do it in private. Hell, my father told me that it was a phase everyone went through, and he'd take me to a brothel once I'd passed the bac to show me the next one. I cannot believe you didn't pass through the same stage."

"Combeferre caught me boxing the ears of someone who had tried to kiss me and, after separating us, told him to never mistake Ezekiel's cherubim for Beaumarchais's Cherubino. No one bothered me after that. I believe everyone then realized that I would not… could not concern myself with… that. It seems so sordid. Give me friendship, true friendship, not the incessant drama of the flesh."

"And I suppose you got that with Combeferre."

Enjolras had such a lovely smile whenever someone complimented Combeferre. "Yes."

"I envy you your Romantic friendship with him," said Courfeyrac. "I have never had a Romantic friendship. If I survive this, I shall try with Marius, or perhaps Feuilly, if he will let me, since you and Combeferre are already taken and there's no separating Joly and Bossuet. Bahorel wouldn't understand and even I am not capricious enough to try and understand Jehan. I am missing out on one of the hallmarks of our era. I am sorry to bother you Enjolras, but I am even colder than one of Combeferre's one-liners."

Since Musichetta had taken back her shawl, Enjolras took off his coat and, wordlessly, helped Courfeyrac into it.

It was still warm; Courfeyrac snuggled into it like a kitten, pulling contentedly at the fabric until it was as comfortable as he possibly could make it. Enjolras watched this with an amused little smile.

"My parents didn't know how to handle me, to be quite honest," said Courfeyrac. "That was why I got set to school early. My mother, bless her, is still uncritically fond of me and can always persuade my father to up my allowance, but I had absolutely no self-control what-so-ever and got palmed off on the Jesuits as soon as my parents could possibly manage it. When did you go to school?"

"Why do you ask?" asked Enjolras.

"Because you never told me," said Courfeyrac. "I could tell you the names and ages of all Joly's brothers and sisters, I could give you a list of Combeferre's tutors, I could describe Bahorel's mistresses better than he could, but all I know is that you come from the Midi… no, I know what you believe, which is more important to you than anything else. Thank you for giving me that."

Enjolras squeezed his hand. Enjolras was still sitting on the edge of the bed, one leg bent, with the knee just touching Courfeyrac's blanketed, uninjured leg, so that he faced the same direction as Courfeyrac. Courfeyrac closed his eyes and leaned his head against Enjolras's shoulder, feeling suddenly exhausted and so genuinely awful he didn't want to be awake any more.

"I suppose I ask because I'm afraid if I don't do it now, I will never know."

Enjolras released Courfeyrac's hand and slid an arm around Courfeyrac's waist. Courfeyrac leaned into the embrace desperately, pressing his hot forehead against the side of Enjolras's neck.

"Would it be stupid to ask for a priest?" asked Courfeyrac, when he felt himself starting to fall asleep.

"No."

"No?"

"I will not dictate any man's religion," said Enjolras. "If you want a priest, we will get you a priest."

"Hide the republican propaganda first," said Courfeyrac. "I do not want to die in prison."

"You will not die," said Enjolras.

"We will all die someday," Courfeyrac replied melodramatically. "I believe my 'someday' is sooner than yours. It frightens me more than I can say."

Enjolras pressed his forehead to Courfeyrac's, cupping the back of Courfeyrac's head in one slender hand. He did not have to say anything; he merely had to press his forehead, so welcomingly cool, against Courfeyrac's hot one and Courfeyrac felt much calmer. He even allowed Enjolras to tuck him back in again and replied with a meek, "Sir, yes sir," to Enjolras's admonishment to rest. He did not, however, and shifted around so that he could watch Enjolras walk out of the bedroom and into the sitting room; Enjolras forgot to shut the door behind him, and Courfeyrac could see Musichetta, wrapped in up in shawls again, sitting in an armchair, with Joly on the floor, resting his head on her knees.

"Courfeyrac wants a priest," said Enjolras.

Joly buried his face in Musichetta's lap.

Musichetta merely ran her fingers through Joly's hair and replied, "Alright, let me put my hair up first. Jolllly, I need the money for a hackney. It's in the desk…?"

"Topmost left hand drawer, key on the mantle," Joly said muffledly. Musichetta bent to drop a kiss on the top of his head.

Enjolras disappeared from sight and then returned, giving Musichetta a purse. "Should you be going out on your own, citoyenne?"

"Joly, would you get my dress out from Bossuet's room? You ought to wake up your friend, too."

Joly stood, grateful to be pushed out of his anxiety and into action, and quietly made his way into Bossuet's room. Musichetta looked up at Enjolras.

"Is it really bad?"

"I cannot say."

"Cannot, will not or are they all one?" Musichetta shook her head, her dark, now loose hair rippling with the movement. She began deftly rebraiding her hair and pulling it up into a top-knot. "I think Joly ought to come with me. He's not going to be of any use. He doesn't know where Bossuet is and he can't do anything for Courfeyrac. If he stays he'll work himself into a fit. You have… oh what's-his-name. I should remember, Joly goes on and on about how brilliant he is."

"Combeferre."

"Him. I'll take Joly with me. Do you know of any priest with your sympathies?"

"No."

Musichetta let out a puff of air. "Does Courfeyrac go to a specific church?"

"I do not think so."

"Well, hell. I'm so lapsed I might as well be a heathen, and Joly's a Voltarian Deist. I don't suppose you concern yourself with religious institutions?"

"Not in general. I have neither any quarrel with organized religion nor any interest in it."

Joly reappeared with an armful of fabric. "Combeferre's waking up. He said he'd take a look at Courfeyrac as soon as he's dressed. Have I gotten everything, Musichetta?" He handed her the bundle of clothes.

"Wrong petticoats, love," said Musichetta, sorting through them.

"They are? How can you tell?"

"As in, you've brought me two muslin petticoats instead of a regular petticoat and my corded one. I realize, Jolllly, that you are used to seeing them come off as opposed to being put on, but without my corded petticoat, the skirt of my gown will sag and I will rip out the hem."

A moment later, a corded petticoat skidded across the floor.

"Oh, that was sweet of you," said Musichetta, picking it up. "If you see my wire-sleeve hoops anywhere—"

Two lumpy concoctions of wire and muslin zoomed across the floor to land at Musichetta's feet. "Thank you, you're a darling."

"Combeferre, how do you know what those are when I don't?" Joly asked, and received a firm click from the door in response. Enjolras smiled and looked courteously in the other direction as Musichetta stripped down to her shift and began lacing herself into her undergarments. Courfeyrac had no such compunctions, and, as Musichetta shot an amused smile through the open door, decided that he had more or less tacit permission to look at Joly's mistress in a delightful state of dishabille. Once the pieces were assembled, however, Joly knew what he was doing, and helped Musichetta dress quickly enough.

"Are you decent?" Combeferre called.

Joly finished lacing up the back of Musichetta's gown, and Musichetta rewarded him with a kiss before responding. "As decent as I ever am. It is safe to come out."

Combeferre did so, looking exhausted and slightly confused. He had somehow managed to put his trousers on backwards and this had so defeated him that he had given up on waistcoat, cravat and coat. "Please forgive my informality, citoyenne—"

"You have my full permission to walk around in only your nightshirt if you want," replied Musichetta. "I run a terribly lax household. We have some coffee in the cupboard if you want it."

"Ah, thank you. That might be a good idea. Ah… I heard something about a priest?"

"You should go to Marius's friend," called Courfeyrac, "the Abbé Mabeuf. Marius tells me that he approves of political opinions. Either he is a curé or his brother is, but the brother is visiting— Marius was in raptures about some tale or other of Colonel Pontmercy yesterday, as explained to him by the curé of Vernon, which may or may not be Abbé Mabeuf who lives on the Rue Mesieres."

"Oh, the author of  _Flora of the Environs of Cauteretz_ ," said Combeferre. "I believe his brother is the curé, but if the brother is visiting, it hardly matters."

Joly and Musichetta left, leaving Combeferre to try cutting open a vein (Courfeyrac was not pleased to have  _four_ scars out of that evening's adventures) and Courfeyrac to drink down the rest of the laudanum. The curé's visit thus passed somewhat oddly; Courfeyrac was slightly loopy on laudanum and refused to speak until Combeferre had ascertained that the curé (the brother of Marius's friend after all) had sworn the Civil Constitution of the Clergy and had republican sympathies.

"My brother and I are of one mind on that subject," said the curé. "We approve of political opinions but there are people who do not know when to stop. Your friend said that a gendarme shot you in the leg because of a difference of politics? That grieves me very much. Back in Year One, people would argue but I never heard of gendarmes shooting law students. I suppose in Paris everything is different, but I had thought even in Year Two the police did not drag twenty-somethings into alleys with broken glass and then shoot them—the twenty-somethings, not the glass—in the thigh. You are far too young to be dying for your beliefs."

"Oddly, I feel rather the same way," said Courfeyrac. "And I suppose I ought to confess now, but I cannot think of anything. I have loved my neighbor as myself and have not been unduly lured away from loving the Supreme Being… I mean, God… the names are really interchangeable in my republican opinion. I cannot remember what I ought to confess."

"Well, no matter," said the curé, setting out a vial of oil, a small flask of wine and a wafer on the bedside table. "God's memory is longer than ours and yet he still forgets our sins. Now," he said, managing to unearth a Bible from the recesses of his cassock, "where is my crucifix? You ought to have one to kiss before we continue on."

"Is that necessary?" asked Enjolras, a little puzzled.

"Never seen the Last Rites? Ah, good, we have managed to protect some of our youth. One must have one's traditions, you know, and a gesture like that says quite a lot more than the longest confession. Ah, here we are."

Once the curé had guided Courfeyrac through the prayers and anointed Courfeyrac with oil, he said, "God be with you, my son."

"I fear that very shortly I shall be with Him," replied Courfeyrac. "Do you have any messages for Saint Peter?"

"None that I cannot carry myself, when the time comes," replied the cure. "But you are young. God willing, I was called here to heal you rather to prepare you for burial. I shall bless you and then you shall sleep."

"I shall sleep? Perhaps I will sleep eternally."

The curé did not know what to make of him. "You  _must_ sleep, my son. There is no need to fear it."

Courfeyrac was skeptical, and though he obediently closed his eyes, he refused to let himself sleep. The thought of never waking up was too real, too terrifying to allow any real relaxation. Courfeyrac clung almost desperately to his fear; it kept him awake. It kept him alive… and in pain, yes, but alive. He felt dreadful and felt, somewhat vaguely, that sleep would help, but he could not believe it was be a cure rather than an end to all sensation. He focused on the conversation in the other room.

Joly, Voltarian that he was, had given the curé a good edition of  _Mahomet_ , "for his brother the church warden" in thanks and had provoked Combeferre into a series of scathing one liners.

"It was in the best condition of all the books in the apartment," Joly replied, rather anxiously. "I forgot what it was about, honestly. I have nothing against the divine watchmaker, and if one needs a ceremony to remind him to keep winding up the watch that is our bodies, well, so be it! I really didn't mean anything by it—"

"At least it wasn't  _Tartuffe,_ " added Musichetta. "Any word from Bossuet?"

"No," said Enjolras, "but as we have not received an urgent request to post bail, or to send a doctor, he is probably fine."

Joly did not seem to be entirely convinced, but after glancing into the bedroom and seeing Courfeyrac, enervated, lying motionless with his eyes half-closed said, "More than I can say for poor Courfeyrac. By God it's driving me mad—we can't do  _anything_ for either of them at this point."

"We cannot do anything but wait," said Combeferre, firmly, but quietly. "There is still a chance—he is still coherent—"

"That doesn't mean anything, this is just the beginning of the fever," said Joly, with a few worried coughs. Courfeyrac shut his eyes and, with something of a struggle, managed to flip onto his stomach and hug his pillow to his chest. He felt better for holding something, even if he had to readjust the pillow under his knee, which made his thigh _ache_ again.

"There is always hope," said Combeferre, albeit a little doubtfully. "We will see in the morning. Enjolras, you said you would stay up and watch Courfeyrac?"

"Yes. Get some sleep."

Courfeyrac heard the door close and Enjolras walk into the room. Courfeyrac fisted his hand in the sheets to keep himself from shouting or cursing, but by  _God_  flipping over had been a bad idea and his leg had no reason to hurt like that and his head ached as if he had been coming out of a two day drinking contest with Grantaire and Bossuet and was there really nothing else to be done and oh  _God,_ what a way to die—

Enjolras gently ran his fingertips over the back of Courfeyrac's hand.

"I confess that I have not always acted with the republic in mind," said Courfeyrac, pressing his forehead to the back of Enjolras's hand and probably smudging holy oil all over Enjolras's hand. "Still, I have tried and I have loved it with my whole heart. I may have had a mistress here and there and, er, everywhere, but I have not loved the republic one iota less for having loved them. I have loved my neighbor as myself, and sometimes more than that, and in that way, have made a little republic of… if not Jacobin virtue, at least love, to live in. I cannot think of any past unfaithfulness… oh, what's next? Pride, hypocrisy, impatience, indifference… oh, yes, self-indulgence. I am terribly guilty of that. Grant me absolution, will you?"

"There is nothing to absolve you of," replied Enjolras. "You have committed no crime against the republic, Courfeyrac."

"No? Thank the Supreme Being for that then," Courfeyrac replied. "I think I am a better revolutionary than I am a Catholic, though it's odd how the former can aid the latter, depending on one's interpretation of both. One cannot be indifferent to the sufferings of one's neighbors when one is a part of a secret revolutionary organization dedicated to the eradication or at least amelioration of misery in society, so there is one less sin to confess. God, I feel awful."

Enjolras smoothed Courfeyrac's hair out of his face. Courfeyrac leaned almost desperately into the touch. Enjolras's fingertips were soft and welcomingly cool against his forehead, much cooler than the curé's had been when drawing a cross on Courfeyrac's forehead.

Courfeyrac wrapped his arms around his pillow and buried his face in it. He was not crying. He was not crying. He was shivering, that was all. He could—he  _would_ be brave until the end, he would laugh in the face of death and make puns about the Grim Reaper's scythe.

Enjolras touched Courfeyrac's shoulder, almost uncertainly.

"Cold, s'all," Courfeyrac managed to choke out, in between what very definitely were not tears.

Enjolras removed his hand and, several minutes later, Courfeyrac felt someone climb into bed with him. Courfeyrac was startled out of his fit of dejection. That someone had to be Enjolras and—this was just all too strange.

Someone-that-really-had-to-be-Enjolras-unless-Musichetta-had-snuck-in-and-decided-she-prefered-him-to-Joly, gently pulled Courfeyrac against a chest far too flat to be Musichetta's and wrapped their arms around him. Courfeyrac pulled onto his side; he had previously been lying on his stomach, one pillow under his knee, to keep his injured thigh up, and the other pillow in his arms. He now had the pillow clutched somewhat stupidly to his chest, but he felt himself start to relax. It was glorious to have something warm against his aching back, even if he still could not assign an identity to that warmth.

It had to be Enjolras; Enjolras did not often express any emotion unrelated to the republic, but when he did, it never occurred to him to say anything. It was the gesture that mattered and by God was the gesture welcome. Courfeyrac relaxed against Enjolras's chest. "Thank you."

Enjolras said nothing, just tightened his arms around Courfeyrac.

"It's so dark out," said Courfeyrac, just to be saying something.

"We provide our own light, then," said Enjolras, most likely mistaking Courfeyrac's feverish observations for an elaborate metaphor on the human condition. Well, that was the problem about having a conversation with Enjolras. If it went on long enough it would turn into a series of metaphors that completely deconstructed one's paradigm of perception. Courfeyrac resigned himself, not unwillingly, to some sort of mind-altering musings on light and the warmth of Enjolras's embrace. Enjolras was saying something extremely brilliant, Courfeyrac was sure, but Enjolras was also extremely warm and Courfeyrac felt oddly comfortable. His leg still hurt like the devil, but Enjolras's voice, which usually thundered out like Gabriel's trumpet calling the sleeping to awake and see the dawn, was oddly soft, and his breath stirred Courfeyrac's disheveled curls so soothingly. Enjolras was there, Courfeyrac thought, somewhat hazily, so everything was going to be alright.

"—as all things come from light, all things return to it. There is nothing to fear in the darkness that comes just before the dawn…."

Courfeyrac nestled against Enjolras's chest and closed his eyes. Courfeyrac supposed he slept, but he dreamed only of the sunrise; the actual one did not wake him up, but he awoke automatically at eleven, his usual time, and felt vaguely surprised that he had woken up at all. He felt stiff, but at least he was not a stiff and, though his leg hurt and he felt somewhat muzzy-headed, he felt much better.

Thank God, he was alive. It took a moment for the thought to sink in, but Courfeyrac realized that yes, thank  _God,_ he was alive. He was alive (his leg wouldn't have hurt quite as much if he had been dead) and by God it was glorious to be alive and not to be feverish (Courfeyrac felt his forehead to be sure) and he was so  _happy_ to be awake and he was still pleasantly warm and felt so oddly safe—and ah, that was because Enjolras was still curled around him, sleeping quite serenely. Enjolras had stayed the night, had had enough faith to sleep next to Courfeyrac without fearing that, the next morning Courfeyrac would be a corpse and a very unwelcome bedfellow, had enough compassion to realize how Courfeyrac hated to be alone at night—what a wonderful friend, Courfeyrac thought, grinning at Enjolras's sleeping profile.

Courfeyrac fell in love very easily, though he only called it that because he had no other way to describe the sudden onrushes of pure feeling and affection he felt for others. When he felt it, he simply  _had_ to do something. He couldn't contain himself; he just  _had_ to act before he burst with feeling.

As he glanced at Enjolras, still half-curled around him with golden hair spilling across the bed linen (Courfeyrac still had control of both pillows) like a streak of sunlight, Courfeyrac felt such a powerful sweep of feeling he impulsively kissed Enjolras on the temple.

Enjolras blinked up at Courfeyrac. Courfeyrac felt so  _happy_ to be alive, still, to wake up knowing Enjolras had stuck with him throughout the night and woken with him to see the dawn. Or mid-morning sunlight, but no matter. There was no way Courfeyrac felt he could describe any of what he felt, any of that glorious happiness, that gratefulness, that tender and overwhelming affection he had for Enjolras, and so they all pushed their way out into the open through his smile.

Enjolras looked entirely disoriented, staring up at Courfeyrac with a sort of stunned bewilderment that faded into something altogether more difficult to place. His arm tightened imperceptibly around Courfeyrac's waist, and he stared at Courfeyrac until Courfeyrac began to think that Enjolras was really not a morning person, for all his infatuation with light, and needed to be prodded into consciousness.

"Surprised to see me alive?" Courfeyrac asked, quirking up his eyebrows. "I am rather surprised myself. I can only imagine that the Grim Reaper came by, mistook you for my guardian angel and left at once rather than do battle."

"You are yourself again," said Enjolras, with a tentative smile that caused Courfeyrac's to reappear.

Courfeyrac touched his forehead to Enjolras's. "Indeed I am. Was I ever not?"

"No," said Enjolras, "never."

"Perhaps I lost a little of my warmth," said Courfeyrac, pulling back to smile at him again, "but you supplied the light, my dear, dear friend. I feel as weak as a kitten, and my leg hurts like hell whenever I move it, but I am…."

"You have your smile back," said Enjolras. He shifted slightly, so that he could free his other arm from under Courfeyrac, and ghost his fingers across Courfeyrac's forehead, to feel for a fever. "Or perhaps, even more of it. It seems to have intensified, even as your fever has abated."

"Or perhaps I was just smiling because it was you," said Courfeyrac, cheekily.

Enjolras smiled, but released Courfeyrac and climbed out of bed to dress. Courfeyrac was oddly disappointed. Still, it was amusing to see Enjolras, of all people, in wrinkled trousers and a half-unbuttoned shirt gaping open to reveal his collarbones and the slight dusting of golden hair on his chest.

"What day is it today?"

"Friday," said Enjolras, buttoning his shirt.

"Then I have no lectures to miss. Ah, I shall miss lunch with poor Pontmercy, however. I do not think he eats lunch except when I am there to give him food and then chatter his pride into submission. Then I was to get in a last game of tennis this afternoon with Grantaire and some fellows from the law school before it got too cold to venture out of doors without gloves. I suppose my evening is out, as well; I always sneak Feuilly and some friends of his into vaudeville Friday evenings and then spirit them off to dinner afterwards. I suppose it is a lucky thing that I am between mistresses; no awkward questions or tearful recriminations when I fail to show up for the evening." Courfeyrac pulled a face. "There is the one benefit to this adventure. I shall be left entirely on my own for an evening and become very sulky, but I shan't have to deal with anyone else's sulks."

"Does an evening alone so annoy you?" asked Enjolras, tucking his shirt back into his trousers.

"Indeed it does, though a night alone is far worse. I hate to be by myself, particularly when I am, alas, an invalid. You have nothing to do but feel terrible and isolated from the rest of the world."

Enjolras pulled on his waistcoat, indifferent to the wrinkles in his shirt. "I have no engagements this evening. I can return if you like."

Courfeyrac beamed at him. "I was hoping you would. There is something about you, my dear fellow, which inspires trust. You didn't insist I sleep like our dear doctors or as a cure advised by the curé, you just put me in a position where I could."

"You give me too much credit."

"Ah, allow me to be flippant!" exclaimed Courfeyrac. "I am alive. I wish I could thank you."

"There is no need."

"Only the desire," said Courfeyrac, "and I am even worse than Jehan at restraining my desire. I shall find some way to repay you, Enjolras."

"You phrase it almost as a threat," Enjolras replied, buttoning up his waistcoat, but smiling.

Courfeyrac laughed. "Perhaps it is? Beware Enjolras—I shall attempt to make you as happy as you have made me."


	3. Chapter Three

After Enjolras left, Joly came back from class with a quiche from the  _traiteur_ a few streets over and Musichetta put a cloth over the bedside table, dragged in two chairs and set up lunch by the bed. Joly did not allow Courfeyrac any of the quiche on the grounds that even he, Joly, was not so stupid as to think one could get away with eating hot foods while one was recovering from a fever.

"Your fever will come back and then where will you be?" Joly demanded, carefully measuring out a dose of laudanum and handing it over.

"In your bed, still," replied Courfeyrac, which made Musichetta almost choke with laughter and then ask if she had really seen Enjolras sleeping with Courfeyrac earlier.

"I'm a terrible patient," Courfeyrac admitted, downing the dose of laudanum and looking longingly at the quiche. "The only way Enjolras could actually get me to rest was by physical restraint."

Joly offered Courfeyrac a pear instead. "I suppose he'd be the only one who could. You tussle with Bahorel too often to submit without opening up your wounds again."

"I do not tussle, I assert my authority," replied Courfeyrac.

"Which is why, of course," came Bossuet's voice from the doorway, "you always end up pinned to a wall with Bahorel messing up your hair."

" _Bossuet_!" cried Joly, leaping up from out of his chair. Bossuet, looking exhausted but otherwise unharmed, stood in the doorway in his shabby overcoat and dented hat. Joly flung himself into Bossuet's arms at once.

Musichetta was equally pleased, if less demonstrative. Bossuet managed to make his way over, even with Joly clinging to him, and Musichetta pulled him down to kiss his cheek.

"You take my return from potential death very calmly," Bossuet chided her.

"Ah, you forget I tell fortunes," said Musichetta, smiling. "The cards are generally right and they told me what little luck you had would keep you from immediate death."

"Superstition perhaps," said Joly, kissing Musichetta, "but I have never been happier to have been proven wrong."

"Ah, the one sentence every woman wants to hear her lover say!"

"I will admit a thousand times that you were right," Joly said grandly, earning a laugh from Bossuet, whom he still clung to, limpet-like, and another kiss from Musichetta.

"I trust you flew out of danger unscathed?" asked Courfeyrac, grinning.

"You, alas, stole my 'l's from me," said Bossuet, with a fond smile at Joly, "but Bahorel is an extremely formidable opponent. There were an uncomfortable few minutes where we thought we would be taken into the police station, but the landlady's daughter let out this positively blood-curdling scream that there were robbers downstairs, and had trashed her room enough to make it look realistic, bless her. My unscathed return, though miraculous in and of itself, seems to be even more so when I see that you, the one with the best luck of all of us, ended up annoying a gendarme past reason. Couldn't talk yourself out of it?"

"I tried so desperately hard, too," replied Courfeyrac. "I even had Jehan pretend to be my mistress at one point."

Bossuet laughed and picked up the piece of quiche on Joly's plate. "Ha! Poor Jehan. I went to check on him before coming here and he was terribly worried about you. He said you'd been shot."

"In the thigh," Courfeyrac said morosely. "I have three scars there,  _three_ , not to mention whatever horrors the leeches have inflicted upon me. From now on every mistress I have, if I indeed ever manage to have a mistress again, will see I have been hideously deformed."

"I think they would be distracted by the sight of something else instead," replied Musichetta, with a delightfully wicked smile.

"Musichetta, darling," replied Joly, with Bossuet's arm still around his waist, "I am too happy right now to be jealous."

"How can you be so disobliging?" asked Musichetta, pouting.

Joly tumbled out of Bossuet's arms and into Musichetta's lap. "Better?"

"I suppose- hé, what are you doing there?"

Bossuet quite gamely took Musichetta's quiche as well. "Surviving off your remnants."

"Silly boy—Joly brought a whole quiche home. Go get a plate from the cupboard. You deserve a whole piece."

"The soul of generosity!"

"Might you share with me?" asked Courfeyrac, in tragic accents.

Joly shook his head. "No, don't let him seduce you into it. Cold, dry foods to make sure his fever doesn't return."

"No quiche?" demanded Courfeyrac.

"None."

"You are a tyrant."

"He's going to be a doctor," said Musichetta, rather proudly, an arm around Joly's waist. "You have to take his education into account. At the very worst he's an enlightened despot."

Courfeyrac dutifully ate his pear and the bread Joly allowed him afterwards, but refused to give up the argument. He attempted to prove Joly's tyranny by pointing out the flaws in Joly's education.

"You boarded, didn't you?"

"Not for very long," said Joly, who had switched positions and now had Musichetta sitting on his lap. He and Bossuet had given up on the trappings of civilization, in the manner of any university student who had not wanted to do the dishes and now did not have any that had not been colonized by new and interesting species of fungi, and were eating the quiche out of the pie tin. "I always feel awkward when everyone else complains about their fathers. I get along splendidly with mine. He oversaw most of my education and sent me off to school on the understanding that he would take me out of it every weekend or so. My mother had always made it clear that one, I was premature and sickly, so it wasn't likely I'd live past my fifth birthday and therefore be old enough to be ruined by my father's odd ideas, or, even if I did get lucky, have much of a life to be ruined, and two, I was my father's experiment in child-rearing after six previous refusals, as she could no longer refuse him a son to experiment upon in good conscience."

"That's a poor reflection on your father's parenting skills," said Bossuet.

"It's an even worse reflection on your mother's," replied Courfeyrac.

"I thought Combeferre declared mother jokes to be off limits," said Bossuet, "after you took the 'I'll-fuck- _your_ -mother' joke too far and Bahorel smashed a bottle of Bordeaux over your head."

"Only technically," said Courfeyrac. "At any rate, Combeferre only did  _that_ because Enjolras keeps calling the republic his mother, and metaphorical seduction of the Republic by one of his lieutenants would just confuse him. Speaking of Enjolras—I was talking with him last night and just wanted to be sure. You both went though a bout of kissing boys, didn't you?"

"Wait, what?" said Musichetta, who had been fondly playing with Joly's hair and not really paying attention to the conversation.

"Kissing boys. There aren't any girls at boarding schools, so you make do."

"Naturally," said Bossuet. "One has to make the best of every situation. I am somewhat surprised that you were talking about that to  _Enjolras_ , however. One gets the impression that he sprung fully formed from the head of the Republic."

"No, he had a dreadful time of it in boarding school, by the sounds of it. I mean, at my school, fistfights would have broken out before class everyday over who got to share an inkwell with him."

"What, wasn't that the case in his school?" asked Musichetta.

"Not exactly. Enjolras tended to start the fist fights once the other boys realized he was pretty. I mean, easy to mistake the fellow for a girl sometimes, if you're not looking at him straight on and haven't known him long enough to recognize him as soon as you see his hair, and at boarding school...." Courfeyrac lifted a shoulder in a shrug.

Joly winced. "Poor Enjolras."

"I feel sorrier for anyone who tried to touch him," said Bossuet. "The man wounds enough with a glare."

"Really?" asked Musichetta. "He seemed perfectly charming yesterday, curling up with Courfeyrac and all. I can see legions of impressionable schoolboys taken in my his rhetoric, experiencing the first taste of the love that so inspired the ancients, the love that bonded David to Jonathan, the pure manifestation of deepest friendship between two men—"

"Boarding school sodomy," said Joly, vaguely disapproving, "is not the happy, homo-erotic paradise you're making it out to be, Musichetta. One of my closest friends in school used to get beat up something dreadful by the older boys when he didn't go along with their plans. It's not always a manifestation of friendship and all that. It's a power struggle and it can be absolutely dreadful."

"Did you kiss boys?" asked Musichetta, zeroing in on the most important part of Joly's musings.

"I could hardly avoid it," said Joly, pulling a face at her. "Besides, when you're an innocent and slightly awkward twelve-year-old who doesn't know how else to comfort a friend or express your affection, what else would you do? I mean, it was perfectly innocent. I once told my father that I was such good friends with Jules that we even kissed on the lips and had no idea why he started choking on his brandy."

Musichetta was staring at Joly in rapture. "Did you really?"

"Yes. It was all very innoc-mmph?"

He did not get to finish, as Musichetta decided that she absolutely had to kiss him herself. Courfeyrac, being the mature revolutionary he was, gave a wolf-whistle.

Joly made an extremely rude hand gesture, as Musichetta was still keeping him from speaking, but Musichetta stopped long enough to wink at Courfeyrac.

"I am surprised to hear it's so wide-spread," said Musichetta. "I suppose it would be considered as a perfectly normal expression of schoolboy intimacy if you kissed Bossuet, Jolllly?"

"Euh?" Joly was somewhat dazed. Courfeyrac did not blame him. "Euh, probably in boarding school. Nowadays, I have better ways of expressing my affection."

"Would you kiss him to express your affection for me?" Musichetta asked sweetly, twining her arms around Joly's neck.

Bossuet and Courfeyrac began sniggering, or rather, Courfeyrac began sniggering and Bossuet began choking on his quiche.

"I am not sure I entirely follow your reasoning there," said Joly. "Besides, Courfeyrac's in the room."

"Well, you can kiss him too," said Musichetta, equitably. "I believe in free love."

"You are, without doubt, the most original hostess I have ever had the pleasure to meet," said Courfeyrac. "I may never leave this bed."

Bossuet, having managed to spit out the offending bit of quiche into his napkin, caught the half-hidden note of fear in Courfeyrac's voice and looked awkward. "I... ah...."

"We'll let's bleed you and see if that helps," said Joly, with a false note of heartiness. "The fever's passed at least. It could return, but if you rest you ought to gain your strength back."

Courfeyrac felt rather surly. "I rested all morning. I don't need to rest any more."

"Yes you do," objected Joly.

"No, I don't," said Courfeyrac, in a clear demonstration of his brilliant debating skills.

"Someone's at the door," said Musichetta, and slid off Joly's lap. "I'll go see who it is. Joly, don't give in, you're in the right. Ah hello...?"

"Forgive me, mademoiselle," someone said stiffly. "I am looking for Courfeyrac."

"Marius Pontmercy!" cried Courfeyrac, beaming and craning his neck around to try and see out the door of the bedroom. "How on earth did you find me? You are most welcome."

Marius slid past Musichetta, his dusty hat pulled low over his forehead and a baguette clutched in his arms. "Hallo Courfeyrac. You didn't come, so I went to your apartment."

"Where I evidentially was not."

"Yes." Marius shifted from one foot to the other. He was terribly sweet sometimes, but also terribly oblivious. Musichetta was smiling at him in amusement.

Courfeyrac prompted, "How did you know I was here?"

"I didn't."

Right, enlightening conversation, that. Courfeyrac crossed Marius off of the Potential Romantic Friends. If Courfeyrac choked out, with his last, consumptive breaths, that he wished to die in Marius's arms, Marius would probably stare at the clouds, compare them to those at Austerlitz, and completely miss whatever Courfeyrac was saying.

"I thought Lesgle would know where you were," said Marius, when it became awkwardly clear that something more in the way of total ignorance was required for the continuation of the conversation.

"That I do," said Bossuet. He pointed at Courfeyrac. "There he is. How are you, Pontmercy?"

"Well, thank you," Marius replied. "And yourself?"

"Much better than Courfeyrac," replied Bossuet. "He usually manages to avoid injury and... Joly, do you really have to take out the leeches now?"

"I don't understand why everyone is so squeamish about leeches," said Joly, attempting to open the jar. "They are terribly useful creatures. Hallo Marius, glad to see you. There's some quiche here still if you'd like it."

Marius gestured vaguely with his baguette. "No thank you."

Courfeyrac eyed the quiche. "Are you sure Marius? Well, you might as well just leave it here in case—"

"In case you can sneak some while Marius isn't looking," said Joly reprovingly. "Sit up and move the blanket; I'm going to leech you."

"You are so very kind," said Courfeyrac, attempting to follow instruction and wincing. "I wonder though, how you so neglect poor Bossuet, who has undergone perils far worse than mine—"

"Just who got shot in the thigh here?" demanded Bossuet.

Courfeyrac did not quite know how to answer and sulked through his leeching. Bossuet, to make amends, offered to go fetch Courfeyrac some clean shirts and a dressing gown that actually fit him, as opposed to Enjolras's frock coat.

"It's warm," objected Courfeyrac.

"Evidentially, as you slept in it," said Bossuet. "I suppose he just walked out with yours this morning? Still, I cannot imagine it was terribly comfortable."

"You all are just trying to keep me bed-ridden," Courfeyrac complained, resisting Joly's attempts to take away Enjolras's coat. "It's not as if I can get up on my own- each time I move my leg I start hoping that you will somehow forget when you gave me my last dose of laudanum, Joly, and give me another."

"I think I  _can_  give you another," Joly said, albeit doubtfully. "If you start seeing stately pleasure domes in Xanadu, though...."

Courfeyrac, grimacing from the pain of having to move his leg around to sit up, distaste at leeching and lingering exhaustion, said, "You shall be the first person I shall notify if I become haunted by Malayans."

"I was talking of Coleridge, not de Quincey," objected Joly.

"Oh, I know he's far gone, now," said Bossuet. "Voluntarily taking on a participle?"

"Better a de Quincey than a de Courfeyrac," he replied. "Marius, I fear we may be shocking you with our odd republican banter."

"N-no," stammered Marius, shifting from foot to foot.

"Bossuet, I shall be eternally in your debt if you would fetch me some clean linen," said Courfeyrac, taking a glass of carefully measured laudanum from Joly. "Marius, take Bossuet's seat and tell me how your latest translation project is going."

"Good," said Marius, dropping into the vacated seat.

Fascinating conversation that. Joly was biting his lower lip to keep from laughing. Courfeyrac glared at him balefully.

"Just give me the coat and promise me you'll go to sleep and I shall leave you and Marius in peace," said Joly.

"I happen to like this coat," said Courfeyrac, beginning (at last!) to feel the effects of the laudanum. "By which I mean, it's warm, I can wrap it around myself quite easily and reminds me of Enjolras, who, by the by, managed to reassure me much better than you did, Jolllly."

Joly shook his head. "I had no idea you were this susceptible to opiates. Well, I suppose there's no reasoning with you to try and get you to go to sleep?"

"Nope."

Joly rubbed his nose, which he usually did when thinking. "You are an absolutely dreadful patient, I shall have you know. I suppose I shall have to rely on Enjolras to get you to follow your doctor... er... medical student's orders."

He did leave after that, as Musichetta draped her arms around his neck, kissed him, and pulled him out of the room for something probably much more interesting than trying to engage Marius in conversation when Marius clearly did not wish to be engaged. Marius was awkward and embarrassed for no apparent reason until Courfeyrac happened to mention that, despite all appearances, Joly and Musichetta were actually taking very good care of him. Marius turned bright red and scowled at Musichetta's name.

"Eh?" said Courfeyrac.

"I know I dress poorly," Marius burst out at once, "but I live honestly and I have never had to borrow from anyone. Why you've even borrowed money from me! Once. I am indebted to no one; I live freely. I would prefer my liberty to good tailoring."

"Does there have to be a choice between the two?" asked Courfeyrac, plantively. "I... oh. Did you think she was laughing at you when you came in?"

Marius pressed his lips together and poked at the remaining pieces of baguette.

"Musichetta was smiling at you because you are pretty," said Courfeyrac, reproachfully, "not because you are badly dressed. Bossuet dresses far worse than you do, and Musichetta is still beyond pleased to see him. Really, Marius, you must accustom yourself to thinking you might be worth looking at instead of running away from any woman who glances at you from underneath her eyelashes—"

"Bossuet said you were injured," Marius interrupted, looking flustered.

"I have  _scars_ ," Courfeyrac said tragically.

"Was that what you were talking about when I came in?" Marius pressed on desperately.

"No," said Courfeyrac. "We were talking about boarding school. Or, to be more precise, boarding school sodomy."

Marius stiffened. "Excuse me?"

"You are not going to get out of having at least one awkward conversation with me today," Courfeyrac said reprovingly. "I am surprised you aren't used to it yet."

Marius turned pink.

"Didn't you go through a stage of kissing boys?" asked Courfeyrac, beginning to feel disoriented.

Marius stiffened. "Certainly not!"

"Didn't you board?" asked Courfeyrac.

"No- I had a tutor for my bac. I lived with my grandfather and my aunt."

"Ah," said Courfeyrac. "I suppose that makes sense...." Though he was feeling almost disorientingly disconnected from his body from the laudanum, he did manage to keep himself from saying, 'I suppose my father was right after all, it stunts your emotional growth not to go through that stage and you end up a panicky virgin bewildered by women.'

Marius was already suspicious and now eyed Courfeyrac warily. "What makes sense?"

Courfeyrac tried for innocence. "Nothing. Will you play a round of cards with me, then? The laudanum has got me in its hold and I'm not up to much else today."

Marius, relieved that he would not longer have to make conversation, agreed, and they passed a pleasant half-hour playing  _vingt_ _-et-un._  Bossuet came back soon after that, with some of Courfeyrac's linen and a mostly sober Grantaire. Marius very politely took his leave of them as, the last time he had been in a group with Courfeyrac, Bossuet and Grantaire, the three of them had decided it would be a brilliant idea to take Marius to a brothel and Marius had nearly had some sort of panic attack.

"Brought you this," Grantaire said in a stage whisper, once Bossuet made sure that Joly was still otherwise occupied. Grantaire had had a hand under his coat when he walked in and what Courfeyrac had assumed to be Grantaire's flask ended up being a piping hot crêpe coated with butter and sugar.

Courfeyrac could have kissed him.

"Knew the med students would deprive you dreadfully," said Grantaire, watching Courfeyrac wolf down the crêpe with apparent satisfaction. Grantaire was capable of being extremely sweet, when he remembered to be. He had no beliefs and nearly no understanding, but he did have affections for people. If he groped blindly in the dark for some way to connect, at least he occasionally grasped onto a good way to do so. "Poor Tantalus, Bossuet told me he and Joly ate a quiche in front of you."

"It was  _dreadful_ ," said Courfeyrac, through a mouthful of crêpe. "I am forever in your debt, Grantaire. I feel like I ought to declare my undying love. This is delicious."

"And probably going to give you a fever again," said Bossuet, though he closed the door, took the Marius's chair and smiled.

"Worth it," said Courfeyrac.

"For a taste of ambrosia, one must risk the wrath of the gods," said Grantaire, sitting on the edge of the bedside table. "Just don't serve them your son in return for their hospitality. You would open Pandora's box."

"I would open Pandora's box if I had a son," said Courfeyrac, unashamedly licking the sugar off his fingers. "I can't imagine what my father would say. Actually, I can't imagine what my father's going to say about  _this._  I'll have to tell him I got shot in a duel."

"At least it will provide a good excuse for not taking your exams," said Bossuet. "I'm sure, between us, we can come up with some reason as to why you got shot in the thigh. Is he at all political?"

"He's an ultra," Courfeyrac said glumly. "He gave a bottle of champagne to the servants in honor of Charles X's coronation."

"Perhaps you got caught seducing a marquise?" suggested Grantaire. "I haven't read  _Dangerous Liaisons_ since I got bored as I boarded, but I am sure you could steal a few passages from that, as Prometheus stole fire from the Gods."

"Is Laclos's prose really that much better than mine?" Courfeyrac asked mournfully. "Still, it may prove enlightening... did you say you boarded, Grantaire?"

"Indeed I did."

"You went through the stage of kissing boys, right?"

"As certainly as Zeus indulges in bestiality."

"... thank you for that metaphor, Grantaire. I only mean, everyone has to go through it, or they end up like Marius or Enjolras, completely bewildered the idea that there is such a creature as woman."

Bossuet laughed. "You may have more laudanum than blood circulating around your body, but you still try and pin down Enjolras?"

"I don't always understand the fellow," said Courfeyrac. "Neither do you, Bossuet, you've had enough conversations with me about our chief to know that."

"What's Enjolras got to do with this?" asked Grantaire, perking up at once.

"He punched anyone who tried to kiss him at school," said Courfeyrac. "As he suddenly became attractive at the age of fourteen thanks a Robespierrian diet regime, this happened quite a lot. I don't quite understand why he lashed out. Enjolras is as tactile as I am, though you would scarcely guess it. You'd think he'd understand that a kiss is a good thing."

Bossuet leaned back in his chair. "Who knows? Enjolras never struck me as the sort of person to put any work into building relationships with people if there weren't the strength of shared ideals to sustain it. Still, I am puzzled. Perhaps he received the bad end of it all and now conflates affection with aggression?"

"How did you find that out?" asked Grantaire, leaning forward.

"When I was half-delirious last night, I forced Enjolras to talk to me," said Courfeyrac. "I don't think he will ever quite understand the point of small talk, but he did manage to talk about boarding school. You know, I do admire the man. I forced him into something he probably dislikes doing more than anything else and he still spent the night next to me."

"That's Enjolras for you," said Bossuet. "You think him merely a statue, and then he goes and pulls something like that. I ask you, who  _wouldn't_ want to be on his side of the barricade, when the revolution comes?"

"You were with Enjolras all night?" demanded Grantaire, staring at Courfeyrac.

"There's no need to sound so envious," replied Courfeyrac. "I passed most of the time in a state of pain, panic and profound metaphysical suffering. I think I might have actually asked Enjolras for absolution."

"He is the person to ask for it," said Grantaire, almost bitterly. "Our chaste devotee of liberty—our priest of the Revolution! If only he bestowed his absolution so liberally!"

Courfeyrac began to feel that he had drifted into far deeper conversational danger than he had anticipated upon first seeing Grantaire. He and Bossuet shared a look.

"You have to ask for it the right way," said Courfeyrac, beginning to grow uncomfortable. In general, Courfeyrac liked everyone, and Grantaire was no exception. As long as one did not let Grantaire start sulking about Enjolras, everything was fine. However, once you got Grantaire started….

Bossuet tried to change the topic. "Rather tactile person, Enjolras—actions louder than words and all. Speaking of words, words, words did you hear about Combeferre's latest project? He's trying to make an improved translation of  _Hamlet_."

"Oh yes," said Courfeyrac. "He told me about it a few days ago. Where he gets the time to do all this while having physics parties with Sadi Carnot, his classes, all those extra lectures he attends just out of interest, an internship at Necker—"

It didn't work.

"And I suppose the act of asking for it was enough for you?" asked Grantaire now moving into a mood Courfeyrac knew as well as he detested it, i.e. Enjolras Hates Me, My Life Has No Meaning, I Want A Drink, I Never Grew Out of Schoolboy Infatuations With Men Though I Will Not Say Anything Outright, Only Imply It With Various Classical Allusions No One Else Can Follow. Courfeyrac usually managed to end those conversations by taking Grantaire to a dance hall and letting him chase after any sympathetic  _grisette_  who would look past an unprepossessing appearance and a fog of alcohol fumes to see a decent heart somewhat strangled by loneliness. As Courfeyrac was, however, bedridden, his usual methods did not work and Courfeyrac very much doubted that Musichetta would be willing to do the job. There were no very flattering comparisons to be made between Grantaire and Joly, and if Musichetta was unwilling to throw over a Joly for a Courfeyrac, there was no chance in hell she would throw a Joly over for a Grantaire.

Grantaire had plunged headlong into a new variation of his rant, so Bossuet stared at the ceiling and Courfeyrac tuned out the actual words, looked sympathetic and tried to plot out his own trashy, gothic bodice-ripper. He got as far as having the hero, a dashing paladin who forsook his noble title out of the egalitarian principles that won him the hearts of all fair maidens, defeat the evil villain X. Charles through some vague process Courfeyrac had yet to determine when Grantaire paused for breath.

"Grantaire, dear fellow," said Courfeyrac, as patiently as he could after bearing witness to round 456 of Grantaire vs. Logic, "I have said it before and I will say it again—you don't share Enjolras's ideals. Therefore, you cannot connect with him. I mean, very few people can, not everyone can breathe on the Mountain, and fewer still can scale the summit upon which Enjolras likes to rest. Hell, he was one of my first friends when I came to Paris and I still don't quite understand how he works. But still, you have to make an effort—"

"Then should I drag him down to my level?" Grantaire asked, almost savagely.

"I doubt that Enjolras would allow you to," replied Bossuet.

"No—I respect him the more for despising me, do you know that?"

Courfeyrac and Bossuet exchanged worried looks. Courfeyrac said, "Grantaire, old fellow, are you sober?"

"Yes." Grantaire ran a hand through his unkempt hair. "That is half the problem, isn't it?"

"No, the problem is… are you listening to me?"

Grantaire clearly was not and was searching among his coat pockets for his flask.

Courfeyrac gave up on having any sort of rational conversation, as he realized he should have as soon as Enjolras became the subject of said conversation. He prevailed upon Grantaire to give him some of the wine in the flask (a rich Bordeaux-Grantaire, bless the fellow, had a good nose for wines) and they three of them shared it and worked on a letter to Courfeyrac's father until Feuilly came and scolded them both for being lazy lushes. Bossuet left to go post the letter, and Grantaire turned over his duty as sentinel-entertainer to Feuilly, who demanded to know what in the hell Courfeyrac was thinking, or if he had been thinking at all.

"Revolutions are a dangerous business, yes," said Feuilly, taking off his cap and running his hand through his hair, "but why  _you_ have to go and embrace danger as you would some shop-girl that caught your eye in a dance hall—"

"It was an unintentional seduction, I assure you," said Courfeyrac. He glanced through the open door of the bedroom and saw Musichetta in the next room, cooking dinner. "Musichetta, you tell him."

"Why do you think I have any influence over Feuilly?" asked Musichetta, not looking up from the stove. "I'm not Polish."

"Ha ha," Feuilly said, sarcastically. "I don't judge the object of your affections do I?"

"Yes you do," Musichetta objected. "When Joly first came calling you told me that he was an odd one and told me not to lower my standards just because I wanted to get away from Musetta who, by the way, moved out before I did."

Feuilly took off his cap again and rumpled his hair to stall for time. "I... meant science. Not Joly. You are always reading—"

"So are you!"

"Not  _novels_."

"Hey, what have you got against novels? I heard you crying over the end of  _Julie ou_   _la Nouvelle Héloïse_ _._ The wall between our apartments were thin, Feuilly."

Feuilly flushed. "I was not crying! I... had a cold, was all!"

Musichetta turned and crossed her arms, abandoning her cooking entirely. "I'm sure. Besides, I read scientific articles now as much as my novels—which, by the way, were not the bulk of my reading. You still have some of my library. It was mostly philosophy." She laughed suddenly. "Oh, this is because of Mme de Stael, isn't it? Allow me the liberty to choose what books I add to our collection."

"It was agonizing to try and get through them!" complained Feuilly. "I told you we ought to save up for a set of encyclopaedias, but  _no_ , you just  _had_ to have your own copy of _Delphine_."

"I rather like  _Delphine_ ," said Courfeyrac. "I think it's a brilliant examination of bourgeois expectations."

"And you also thought it was a good idea to jump out of a window," pointed out Feuilly.

"Fair point," conceded Courfeyrac. "I also had something of a  _tendre_ for Delphine, too."

"There's a healthy dose of scientific discovery to balance out the explorations of the human heart," Musichetta argued. "I'm reading the Marquise de Châtelet's translation of Newton, now. Literacy isn't just about self-education you know. There's other ways to liberate yourself than through just... I don't know, some big protest in the streets, not that that doesn't work, so the two of you—and you too, Joly, don't think I don't see you ignoring your coursework!—can back down. There are other ways of liberating oneself from the shackles imposed by society, and  _Delphine_ points out the dangers of it. It's almost the record of an experiment in how society regulates something it shouldn't regulate, love."

In the ensuing half-joking quarrel between Feuilly and Musichetta, Courfeyrac forgot about his observations on schoolboy infatuations until after diner that evening, when a chance remark of Feuilly's about Musichetta's newfound spirit of scientific experimentation blending oddly into romance reminded Courfeyrac that Enjolras, poor soul, was missing out.

Under any other circumstances, and with any other person, Courfeyrac would have found a brothel most likely to cater to his poor, virginal friend's tastes and made an evening of it. However, Courfeyrac was confined to bed rest for a fortnight at the least, and Enjolras had spent too much time with Combeferre to look at any form of prostitution, even one Courfeyrac considered as harmless as a clean, well-run, licensed brothel, as anything other than a sign of the degradation of women and, by extension, any of those who engaged in the cold-blooded exchange of choice and dignity for survival. Courfeyrac, himself, preferred  _grisettes_ , actresses or dancers, who, on the whole, were good-natured girls who understood just how the game was played and delighted in playing it—not because they had to, but because they  _wanted_ to. Still, one ought to go to a professional for initial instruction (at least, so Courfeyrac's father had always said, and Courfeyrac saw no reason to doubt him) and, though Courfeyrac thought the world of Enjolras, he had to admit that Enjolras's social skills, particularly when they came to people he did not know, left something to be desired.

Enjolras was almost reticent. Unless one attempted to connect with him through the ideals that served as Enjolras's own, intriguing filter for the world, Enjolras saw no reason to try and get to know anyone better. He could be charming in his polite, half-smiling reserve, but he was also unthinkingly dismissive, too engaged in seeing the realization of his ideals to really even notice anything else.

Courfeyrac did not quite know how to bring it up once Enjolras had arrived and almost absent-mindedly greeted Courfeyrac with  _bisous_ _,_ a kiss to each cheek. "Are you feeling better?"

"Yes, thank you. How are—"

Then, more pointedly: "Did you rest like Combeferre and Joly advised?"

Courfeyrac smiled guiltily. "I had visitors, Enjolras." Then, with a touch of pride, " _Marius_ came to visit me. He realized, albeit two hours after our usual time, that I had not shown up to drag him out of the Gorbeau tenement and to a café, so he brought me a baguette and played a round of  _vingt-et-un_  with me."

"That is, indeed, a remarkable accomplishment."

"I am glad that you realize it." Courfeyrac grinned cheekily. "Really, Enjolras, you ought to be proud of me."

Enjolras felt his forehead and looked mildly disapproving. Joly had given up on trying to control Courfeyrac hours ago and had, before ushering Enjolras into the room, merely rubbed his nose and said that if Courfeyrac ended up exhausting himself from overexertion, someone ought to make him realize it.

"I did not overexert myself!"

"I said nothing."

"Yes, but you don't always have to say something for me to understand you," said Courfeyrac. "For example, right now you have the smile you usually get when my verve has amused you, but you don't want to encourage me into further silliness."

Enjolras raised his eyebrows, though he smiled still. "Such wisdom in one so young?"

"Come off it, you're younger than I am. See, there's another thing. You never change your expression when you're joking. One always has to wait for this little hint of a smile in your eyes just to be sure you've just been indulging your sense of humor and aren't really serious. Leduc from our tort class, the stupid fellow, doesn't think you have a sense of humor, but if you didn't, you would hardly be friends with me would you?"

"Undoubtedly not," replied Enjolras, smiling again.

"Ah ha! See, there you are. Though, come to think of it, Marius has no sense of humor and is somehow my friend. I have no idea how that works."

"You have other shining qualities besides your ability to entertain, Courfeyrac."

"How kind of you to notice."

"It is difficult not to. However, one also notices a remarkable obstinacy of character. You did not answer my question. Have you slept like Combeferre and Joly have advised you?"

Courfeyrac muttered something about visitors, at which point Enjolras began very pointedly taking off his coat and cravat.

"You do not have to sleep in your trousers," said Courfeyrac, only sulking a little. "Oh, and here's your coat back." He shrugged it off and tossed it to Enjolras. "What was I... oh, right. Bossuet was charged with bringing me some of my linens today and, in a story far too complicated for me to properly recount, lost two of my shirts and my favorite cravat, but did bring me three nightshirts and a dressing gown; you are welcome to borrow any of my sadly limited apparel."

Enjolras hesitated.

"Come now, Enjolras, we are both men." Courfeyrac grabbed a night shirt off of the bedside table and tossed it to Enjolras. "There is no need for you to be uncomfortable all night because I was stupid enough to get injured and you are kind enough to keep me company."

Enjolras caught the article of clothing, and decided that he might as well sleep comfortably. He turned away from Courfeyrac to disrobe.

There was no denying Enjolras was a handsome fellow. There was no trace of his childhood chubbiness, only slim, elegant lines, and a delightful ripple of well-formed muscle under clear, pale skin. Enjolras had an almost graceful way of moving that served to emphasize his physical perfections. It wasn't as if he couldn't attract any number of willing  _grisettes_ , thought Courfeyrac, idly watching Enjolras pull the nightshirt over his head. Perhaps it was a matter of trust?

Since Enjolras was such a tactile person perhaps he didn't think it worth his while to communicate, in his own way, with anyone who could not enter into the rich, ideological intellectual plain upon which Enjolras passed most, if not all, of his time. That seemed plausible. Courfeyrac was immediately and profoundly sorry for Enjolras. Courfeyrac spent a good deal of time reading novels—some which had given him a decent understanding and insight to the human character, and some which had given him a taste for unrepentantly silly melodrama—and began to construct an elaborate drama over Enjolras past which he enjoyed but eventually dimmed down to a more reasonable theory. Enjolras was naturally reserved, he had been teased at school and thus had withdrawn inward... then, thought Courfeyrac, perhaps he just saw any attempted kiss as a more physical form of bullying, at which point a kiss, in Enjolras-speak, must have became roughly equivalent to a punch.

How terribly sad, thought Courfeyrac, conjuring up a few doomed romances and background thunderstorms to add to the mix, that all intimacies for Enjolras had apparently amounted to little more than bullying, the sort of degradation through imposed familiarity Enjolras railed about when Combeferre got into digressions about 'vous' and 'tu'. Poor Enjolras.

Eventually Enjolras's bright head of hair emerged from the confines of Courfeyrac's nightshirt and Courfeyrac somewhat guiltily pretended to be resting.

"Combeferre advised you to sleep."

"Yes, well, Combeferre's word is not the definitive one," said Courfeyrac, giving up the ruse. "I am not some child to be tucked into bed at ten and scolded into sleeping."

Enjolras climbed in beside him and, though he said nothing, very pointedly pushed Courfeyrac back into the pillows.

"Fine, you win. I am exhausted."

"I am glad you are not blind to reality." Enjolras blew out the candle and turned over on his side, which was just as bad, to Courfeyrac's mind, as if Enjolras hadn't been there at all.

"Enjolras?"

"Yes?"

"This is a stupid question, but have you ever been kissed?"

"No."

"Enjolras, you are missing out on one of the greatest joys of life," said Courfeyrac.

"I am doing perfectly fine without it," replied Enjolras, uninterested. "Good night Courfeyrac."

"But—"

"Goodnight, Courfeyrac."

Courfeyrac flopped over onto his side, trying not to move his injured leg. "Enjolras, I only meant... I'm from the Midi. You are too, but, I—well, we are a far more warm-blooded people than your average Parisian. When I kiss your cheeks in greeting, I only mean to say that I am happy to see you and do not trust words themselves to adequately demonstrate my feelings. I never meant it to be an invasion of your privacy or anything of the sort."

"I never considered it as such," replied Enjolras. "You may rest easily."

"So you don't take a kiss from me to be an unwelcome familiarity or some kind of attack on your person?"

"No."

Courfeyrac was slightly sceptical. "Are you sure?"

"Yes, Courfeyrac, I am sure. I have an adequate understanding of your character to know you would never force yourself on anyone, in any manner. You prod at people to get a rise out of them, but you never cross out of teasing into bullying."

"Ah, that's good then."

Enjolras rolled over to look down at Courfeyrac's face in the dim light. "I know you dislike thinking of yourself as ill, or in any way an invalid, but you must rest."

Courfeyrac pulled a face. "You make me sound like a cranky child, trying to stave off a bedtime. I ask because I care, not because I am... I don't know, afraid not to wake up still, or anything. I'm not at all. No, not a bit. I just... I mean, that's not to say... to be quite frank, Enjolras, I never wanted an 'I love you, my friend' turned into 'I do not respect your rights and therefore your humanity' or 'my method of self-expression is superior to yours' or 'you are only worth something because you're pretty, not because you've a soul so brilliant it nearly shines through you'."

Enjolras did not reply and instead pulled Courfeyrac to him; Courfeyrac was surprised but deeply pleased, and ended up nestled against Enjolras, his head resting on Enjolras's chest and one of his arms draped around Enjolras's waist.

"This is no way to win an argument," said Courfeyrac, but enjoyed being in Enjolras's arms too much to protest. Enjolras was blessedly warm and the steady, calm rise and fall of his chest lulled Courfeyrac into a contented half-drowse. "You really never have kissed anyone though? I mean,  _bisous_  aside."

"No."

"Never trusted anyone enough to do it?"

Enjolras tightened his grip around Courfeyrac. "You paint it very blackly, Courfeyrac. I have better ways of expressing my affections."

"True enough," said Courfeyrac, albeit rather sleepily. "You know exactly how to express them to me. I never really doubted your friendship before, but I know never to doubt it again. Ha, that's actually quite odd, now that I think about it—I would face down death for you, as I'm sure you'd know, but I never thought you'd do the same for me. It never occurred to me that the situation would ever arise. And yet, you did it. Never quite realized...."

Enjolras shifted uncomfortably.

Courfeyrac managed to rouse himself at the movement. "I think I understand though, and am very flattered to be your exception to the rule."

"You are...." Enjolras trailed off.

"Ah, don't deny it," Courfeyrac said comfortably. "It makes perfect sense. I am all affection. Particularly for you, my very dear friend. Oh, and I am capable of being terribly charming, you know."

"I am all too aware," said Enjolras. He pressed his lips briefly to Courfeyrac's hair. "I...."

Courfeyrac, half-asleep, did not immediately respond.

"Courfeyrac?"

"Mm?"

"It is of no consequence." He fell silent and was so very quiet when he next spoke, Courfeyrac almost didn't catch his soft, "You are perfectly right."


	4. Chapter Four

Courfeyrac, by dint of pouting, clinging to Enjolras and starting up a conversation about Saint-Just, managed to hold Enjolras captive all of Saturday morning. Enjolras was amused, but was more than willing to play sentinel-entertainer, half-curled around Courfeyrac, as if to protect him. Courfeyrac was supremely content. Enjolras seemed to be enjoying himself, which was, now that Courfeyrac thought about it, quite rare. At the very least, Enjolras was responding to him with equal interest and enthusiasm, and did not mind that Courfeyrac could not quite sit up on his own, and had to use Enjolras to prop himself up. He even had an arm around Courfeyrac's waist, to make it more comfortable. Courfeyrac was overall quite pleased. He managed to keep Enjolras smiling all morning and he had just enough laudanum in him to keep him out of pain, but to still keep him lucid. His conversation wandered a little, but it tended to do so even when he wasn't looking around the room for sunlit pleasure domes of ice.

The conversation on Saint-Just had moved into Courfeyrac displaying that he had always had terrible judgment by way of showing off the hole in his ear-lobe when Combeferre came in. "I wanted gold hoops like Saint-Just," Courfeyrac explained, when Combeferre raised an eyebrow. Enjolras had been tilting Courfeyrac's chin up to see the hole in Courfeyrac's earlobe and almost guiltily removed his hand. Courfeyrac continued on with his tale undaunted. "So I pierced my ears. Or rather…  _tried_ to pierce my ears. I only managed to get one before starting to howl and pain and giving up. I looked like a pirate for a week, before the Jesuits caught onto why I always had my hand over my ear in class and made me take it out."

"That sounds like a wise choice, Courfeyrac," said Combeferre.

"I pierced both my ears," said Enjolras, "the summer before I moved to Paris. I also grew my hair out, but my father made me cut my hair and take out my earrings before he let me get in the coach."

Courfeyrac looked smugly at Combeferre.

"I believe I remember that," said Combeferre. "I still think it was… one of the less intelligent moves you have ever made."

"One must have one's excesses at sixteen," Courfeyrac protested.

"And when one is… what, twenty-three?" Combeferre raised his eyebrows, as Enjolras and Courfeyrac were both sitting in bed wearing nightshirts at around noon, which was perfectly normal for Courfeyrac, but probably not for Enjolras.

Enjolras had an arm around Courfeyrac's waist to keep Courfeyrac upright and quickly removed it. In fact, Enjolras slid out of bed and released Courfeyrac so quickly that Courfeyrac, with a muffled oath, toppled over.

"You are acting oddly today," said Combeferre, glancing at Enjolras. "Are you well?"

Enjolras touched Combeferre on the arm, almost nervously. "I would like to talk to you, when you are at liberty."

Combeferre nodded at once. "Of course. I must change Courfeyrac's bandages—"

"Oh  _goodie_ ," said Courfeyrac.

"—and check his laudanum dosage—"

Courfeyrac perked up.

"—first. Glad to see you are back to your mercurial swings of temperament, Courfeyrac."

"Hey," protested Courfeyrac, "I am not mercurial. I believe the word is 'overdramatic', not mercurial. When have I ever been plunged into despair? I am emotionally stable, which is a sad failing in a Romantic, but ultimately will not lead to my going the way of Young Werther and throwing myself off of a cliff."

"You are much yourself again," said Combeferre, smiling. "Come now, can you sit up so I can take your pulse?"

"As long as you promise not to leech it out of me. Leeches and laudanum do not go well together. I have such  _odd_ dreams afterward." Still Courfeyrac managed to turn himself over without opening up his wound again, and obediently held out his hand. Combeferre pronounced himself satisfied and said that Courfeyrac seemed to be improving.

"I would rather you just bled me normally," said Courfeyrac. "I forgot that those don't give you scars- or, at least, not lasting ones."

"Neither do leeches," said Joly, coming in, thankfully without his jar.

Enjolras quietly finished getting dressed and said, "Joly, can you re-bandage Courfeyrac's wound on your own? I would like a word with Combeferre."

"I suppose," said Joly, albeit doubtfully. "At least, I can start on it. Courfeyrac, let me take your pulse?"

"Honestly, you would think I was dead, with all this uncertainty as to my heartbeat," said Courfeyrac. "It beats, it beats! It hasn't broken!"

"You're in a temper," Joly remonstrated.

Since Courfeyrac was and didn't quite know why, he decided just to sulk as Joly made sure that he was not dead, nor likely to be so in the near future. Enjolras had quietly led Combeferre out to the main room and shut the door behind them. Courfeyrac tried not to keep turning to stare at the door, to see if Enjolras would come back.

"I wish you would hold still," said Joly. He rubbed his nose in exasperation.

"I am so  _bored_ ," Courfeyrac complained. "I have been in this bed for  _three days_. The last time I was in bed for three days, I at least had more congenial company than 'Joly's jar of leeches'."

"You can lie on the couch," suggested Joly.

"How thrilling," said Courfeyrac. "I cannot contain my excitement."

"I am positively overwhelmed by your delight," said Joly. "Still, Musichetta mentioned she wanted to make sure the bloodstains hadn't gotten onto the mattress. And—"

"Jesus  _Christ_!" Courfeyrac glared balefully at Joly, who was undoing Courfeyrac's bandages with a noticeable lack of delicacy.

"And you wanted to get up?" asked Joly, examining the wound. "Hm, I want Combeferre to take a look, but I  _think_ that the wound is healing well. Another leeching just to be sure, perhaps?"

"You are a hateful sadist," said Courfeyrac.

"I am going to be a doctor," Joly replied, with a grin. "Combeferre?" Since he did not hear a response, he jogged backwards to the door, opened it, and stuck his head into the main room. "Combeferre, can you check Courfeyrac's leg-wound? Oh, sorry, am I interrupting anything?"

Enjolras and Combeferre had been standing by the stove, half-bent towards each other, and talking in low voices.

A little uncertainly, Joly said, "I just... wanted to be sure the wound was healing properly. I'm, er, honored that you trust me and all, Combeferre, but you're the one with the internship and all...."

Combeferre looked questioningly at Enjolras, who repressed a sigh and said, "We can continue later. I need a moment to rephrase regardless."

"It is a good metaphor, I just cannot see how you meant to apply it," said Combeferre.

"I shall revise. Go on."

Combeferre did so, and began poking at Courfeyrac's wounds in a manner that made Courfeyrac display his considerable powers of imagination when it came to rude things one could do to Combeferre's mother.

"Cranky with pain," diagnosed Combeferre, in the manner he would a sulking child at Necker.

"Am not," Courfeyrac said, displaying his great maturity.

Enjolras had been standing in the doorway, looking at Courfeyrac, and silently moved forward and sat on the edge of the bed. "Calm yourself, Courfeyrac," he said, laying one of his hands over Courfeyrac's.

Courfeyrac grasped Enjolras's hand gratefully. "I am not cranky, honestly."

The two medical students shared a look over Courfeyrac's leg wound.

"Oh," said Joly suddenly. "Not enough laudanum. It must be throwing his humors out of order. I mean, they... adjusted to the amount I gave him yesterday, and he doesn't have the same today, so...."

"That is extremely dubious medical reasoning," said Combeferre, poking at Courfeyrac's thigh, to feel for swelling. "Still, a little laudanum—"

"Owow _JESUS CHRIST COMBEFERRE!"_  howled Courfeyrac, dramatically flinging himself face-first into Enjolras's lap, much to the amusement of Musichetta and Bossuet in the other room.

"Alright, a lot of laudanum," amended Combeferre, "might do some good."

Courfeyrac was thus, according to Combeferre, given enough laudanum to knock out a regiment of hussars, together with their horses, supposing neither bipeds nor quadrupeds were trained opium-eaters.

All it really did was send Courfeyrac into a odd doze that made him unwilling to move because he wasn't entirely sure he had complete control over his body anymore. On the one hand, this was very good, as he could no longer feel his newly throbbing thigh wound. On the other, he had a terrible itch right on the tip of his nose that he couldn't scratch and that was keeping him awake.

Since he was still lying in Enjolras's lap (Enjolras was leaning against the wall, re-reading  _The Social Contract_ and petting Courfeyrac's hair), Courfeyrac thought of asking Enjolras to do it, but kept getting distracted by all the odd thoughts and images flickering through his mind and kept forgetting to do so.

Courfeyrac supposed Combeferre went off somewhere, as Courfeyrac was disturbed from a very pleasant day-dream about rescuing people from dragons by the sound of a door.

Combeferre whispered, "Is he asleep?"

"Dozing," replied Enjolras, still stroking Courfeyrac's hair.

"Probably more than that," said Combeferre. "He has had an extraordinary amount of laudanum. I believe, however, that he will pull through. He simply loves life too much to give it up without a fight."

The conversation moved onto more general terms. Courfeyrac supposed he must have slept, as he could not remember what happened in between the time Combeferre came in to the time where Enjolras shifted slightly.

Courfeyrac made a small, disapproving sound and pressed himself closer to Enjolras.

"Like a cat," observed Combeferre, amused. "He has the happy ability to sleep anywhere. I half expect him to start purring."

"I have always been fond of cats," said Enjolras.

"And very fond of that one, I imagine," said Combeferre, with a laugh.

Enjolras said nothing, but since he kept stroking Courfeyrac's hair, Courfeyrac was supremely content.

"Enjolras?"

Courfeyrac was drifting off, but drifted back in the direction of consciousness upon hearing Enjolras's soft, "Perhaps overly fond."

"What do you mean?" Combeferre sounded puzzled.

"I am not entirely sure if I could put it into words," said Enjolras. "I tried this morning and could not."

"I'm sure you find that the most disturbing part of whatever... oh."

Enjolras twined one of Courfeyrac's curls around his fingers and said nothing.

"Is it...? Enjolras, I realize that you do not wish... you hinted at... but I had not thought that it was something... of this nature."

Enjolras was silent. Courfeyrac was vaguely disappointed that he was no longer being petted.

"My God Enjolras," said Combeferre, slightly shocked. "You are really...?"

"I am hardly pleased either," said Enjolras. "I had thought myself above such...."

"Yes," said Combeferre. "I had... you showed such distaste for it in boarding school. I didn't think... you do know that Courfeyrac chases after women as ardently as you chase after your ideals?"

"I am aware of that," said Enjolras. "You do him a disservice, however. He is dedicated to the Republic. He may discuss his ideals with an almost playful levity, but he holds them no less dear because of it. We simply have a different approach to the same object." Then, after a pause. "As do the rest of the Amis. Your philosophy; Jehan's poetry; Joly's science…."

There was a creak of bedsprings as Combeferre presumably sat down next to Enjolras. "My very dear friend...."

"I shall not act on it," said Enjolras. "I am... unhappy, to say the least, that I have allowed it to taint a friendship I hold only a little less dear than yours."

"That would be best," said Combeferre, gently. There was a creak of bedsprings again and Courfeyrac assumed that Combeferre had leaned over to put a hand on Enjolras's shoulder. "You should not blame yourself. Passion cannot always be regulated."

"But to allow it to- I respect and admire Courfeyrac. I do not—"

"You in no way degrade him by this," said Combeferre, "as long as you do not act on it. You may still be friends in the greater service of your ideals."

"Yes." Enjolras smoothed down Courfeyrac's hair.

"You in no way degrade yourself," said Combeferre, a little reprovingly. "The mastery of one's baser passions is an admirable endeavor."

'I am not a baser passion,' thought Courfeyrac, somewhat waspishly.

"But you see why...."

"I do. Your ability to craft a metaphor never ceases to amaze, even if the one you chose to use this morning bemused me more than anything else. Still, you have caught it in its early stages. However painful it is to uproot it now, you can still do so, or can force it to wither away without any lasting damage. You can guard against it."

'Jehan would have something very vitriolic to say about all this guarding against passion nonsense,' thought Courfeyrac, disgusted. 'Uproot a passion, what a thoroughly stupid thing to do, unless you know it's an unrequited one, and how can Combeferre possibly judge the case?'

The more he thought about it, the more convinced Courfeyrac became that Combeferre was being an interfering nuisance. Who was he to regulate love? Who was anyone? Musichetta was right. It was a stupid bourgeois notion, thinking that society had any say in the happiness of two people.

"There are serious social ramifications if you do not," said Combeferre, very gently. "For both your sakes, Enjolras...."

Enjolras was quiet for a moment. "Then what is your medical opinion, as to the cure for this... ailment?"

'I am not an ailment,' thought Courfeyrac, beginning to feel very surly indeed. Really, did Combeferre have that bad of an opinion of him? Come to think of it, did Enjolras? Well, evidently no, thought Courfeyrac, as Enjolras was starting to have a  _tendre_ for him and....

And now that it was put into words, it seemed....

Courfeyrac was not quite sure, and repeated the phrase in his head: 'Enjolras has a  _tendre_ for me.'

He actually felt quite flattered.

He admired Enjolras more than anyone else he had ever met and there certainly was a warmth and a depth to his affection for Enjolras that he did not have for anyone else. And really, Enjolras was so unmoved by romance Courfeyrac began to feel somewhat smug that he, and he alone had touched a heart that had seemed reserved solely for the Republic.

"You know yourself very well," said Combeferre. "You know best whether it would be best if you avoided Courfeyrac, limited your time with him, or continued on with slightly more reserve than usual." He paused. "I had noticed that you... are much less physically reserved with him than with anyone else. I suppose...."

"Even if it has germinated for months or years, it only began to blossom last Thursday." Enjolras stroked Courfeyrac's hair. "He never once turned back on his ideals-he asked me to forgive him for failing the Revolution with his premature death. His is an odd selflessness, all the more admirable because it never draws attention to itself. And...." Much quieter: "It has been nice to wake up to his smile."

"Enjolras...."

"I had the odd thought, the other morning, that it far outshone the sun."

"You are far gone."

Enjolras's hand stilled. "I thought as much. But I cannot abandon him now, he...."

"Conflates you with the Revolution, most likely, and derives symbolic reassurance in your continued presence?"

'Not at all,' thought Courfeyrac, nettled. 'I genuinely like Enjolras for who he is, terrible social skills, unfashionable waistcoats and all. Why, I might even love the fellow—you just ask Nisus if he was half as devoted to Euryalus as I am to Enjolras, or ask Jonathan if what he felt for David was even half of what I feel for Enjolras. I like having him around. He makes me happy. I make  _him_ happy… I think.'

"I assume so," said Enjolras. "If I can give him some support when he most needs it, I will be content."

Well there it was again! Courfeyrac was beginning to get so annoyed he thought about actually saying something, but the laudanum was doing odd things to him and he could not quite get his hand to reach out and slap Enjolras for being so stupid and needlessly self-sacrificing. Hang them both, Courfeyrac  _understood_ and  _admired_ how they took their symbolism very, very seriously, but he was too much of an iconoclast to do so himself. If he liked a person, he liked  _them_ , not whatever convenient archetype they could potentially represent. Admittedly, Enjolras sometimes went the Robespierre route and seemed to foresee his own martyrdom, but really now. There was no call for all this stoic self-sacrifice.

This was all the fault of Enjolras being in the wrong boarding school, Courfeyrac decided, quite suddenly. It was a wonder the poor fellow could even interact normally… or, sort of normally… Courfeyrac gave up on polite phrasing and decided that it was a wonder that Enjolras  _wasn't_ like Marius, blushing and stammering and becoming incredibly indignant whenever anyone tried to show him even a scrap of affection.

"I simply… do not wish to debase him," Enjolras was saying. "He is my equal as much as you are. Because…."

"Because you desire him, do you somehow wish to dominate him?" asked Combeferre, with his usual penetrating clarity.

Enjolras said nothing.

'Combeferre just keeps making it worse,' thought Courfeyrac, thoroughly annoyed. 'I shall give him a piece of my mind about this. Hell, the Sacred Band of Thebes wasn't made half up of brow-beaten soldiers and half of dominating pricks. At least, as far as I know. I shall have to ask Combeferre. Hang it, no I can't, and Combeferre is being stupid about all this and would interpret it wrongly anyways.'

"I am already afraid I...."

"He does obey you," said Combeferre, "when he very rarely obeys others, but, then again, you are his chief. What was it he said about us? He's the center, you're the chief and I'm the guide."

"And it would be wrong for me to... abuse that, or to read into it... perhaps I am not meant for leadership. If I have power, I will wish to dominate."

"You hardly wish to dominate, say, Joly, do you?"

"No."

"That sounded very uncertain."

"No baser passions have tainted my friendship with Joly. Do I... is it a wish to possess, a negation of liberty, as well as of equality and fraternity?"

'Not at all!' Courfeyrac wanted to say, but at that point, he started to hallucinate about knight chasing a unicorn through the room and gave up on doing anything until he had come off the laudanum.

This happened to be about a week later, but no matter.

Courfeyrac was full of determination and said as much to Musichetta, who tended to look after him when everyone else was in class. Musichetta, after all, always had something either clever or useful to say in response to a problem. "—and he just made it worse, and I swear Musichetta, though I respect Combeferre and think him one of the most intelligent men of my acquaintance, he said about the stupidest things he possibly could. I mean, you know as well as I do that it's a necessary stage in a man's emotional development and all. How Combeferre doesn't know it...."

Musichetta, having listened to Courfeyrac's long and only slightly opium-influenced ramble with utter fascination, said, "So you plan on... demonstrating to Enjolras the joys of homoerotic passion?"

"For the sake of his emotional development," Courfeyrac pointed out.

Musichetta raised her eyebrows.

"... alright, and because I don't think Plato was half as devoted to Aster as I am to Enjolras."

"Aster?" asked Musichetta, puzzled. "I read Shelley's translation since I've been trying to learn English. I thought it was Stella."

Courfeyrac shook his head. "I like Shelley, but no, he was wrong there, it was Aster. Plato was teaching him astronomy and writing slightly maudlin poems in his honor. Combeferre told me about in, or rather, I overheard it in the middle of some lecture he was giving to Bossuet about just how much artistic licence could be allowed and the imposition of the sort of conservative religiosity of Charles X on pagan themes that cannot be judged on the same moral law, etc, etc."

Musichetta seized his hands. "Courfeyrac, you must let me help you. I don't think I could live with myself if I didn't."

"To be honest, I was hoping you would offer," Courfeyrac said ruefully. "Laudanum gives you some highly fantastical imagery, but very little in the way of practical methods of seducing your friends. It rather crushes the sexual impulse."

Musichetta was almost beside herself with happiness. "You... oh! You know, I've been thinking to myself for over a week now that you and Enjolras would have the sort of intense... friendship that would make Orestes and Pylades just about die of jealousy and I am terribly glad that you recognize it too. It just about broke my heart to see Enjolras starting to get so physically distant with you again... though...." She grinned rather wickedly.

"Though?" prompted Courfeyrac, amused.

"You know how he always curls up with you when you go to sleep?"

"... do you peer through the keyhole?"

"No, I get up earlier than you do, and you don't always close the door before you go to bed. Still, even if he climbs in with his back towards you, he always ends up holding you in the morning. Sleep reveals to us all the truths we have to hide by the light of day!"

Courfeyrac attempted not to laugh. "Ever thought of writing gothic novels?"

"Ha, I have, actually, but I always get more interested in the relationships between the two main male characters than the hero and his supposed love interest." She beamed at him. "Well, to return to the subject, I had wondered why Enjolras was drawing back when I was relatively sure this was a most attractive case of Greek friendship. The defects of one's education never fails to haunt one. You can depend on me for practicalities. I say... first I steal one of Joly's brushes and second, loan you my curling iron. You poor darling, bed rest was very cruel to your curls." She released his hands and, tilting her head to the side said, "Now, if I have any decent understanding of the human character, you'll feel worlds better for being properly groomed. We shall proceed from there."

Courfeyrac agreed with some relief and, once he had changed nightshirts, properly shaved and tidied his hair, he felt much more like himself.

"You are charming enough to handle this on your own, I think," said Musichetta, with an amused smile. "I shall simply... implant the idea as it were, and let nature win over nurture. Man is made to love, after all. If we aren't, then all contemporary novelists have gone horribly astray and ought to be ashamed of themselves."

As a gesture of good-faith, Musichetta even let Courfeyrac play with her fortune-telling cards and make up such outrageous futures Joly and Bossuet were helpless with laughter. They were in such good spirits that they gave in immediately when Musichetta started pouting. Bossuet went off to buy the red embroidery thread she rather suddenly and desperately needed, and Joly allowed himself to be drawn away from his patient's bedside to kiss in the main room.

"Courfeyrac has something to occupy him too," said Musichetta, allowing Joly to seize her around the waist. She threw Courfeyrac a half-amused, half-wicked look over her shoulder. "Though it is up to him how he uses the cards Fate lays out for him."

"You are such a charming fatalist," said Joly, kissing her. "As a Voltarian, I ought to be appalled. You approach on Lebnitz, my treasure."

Musichetta, pulling him into the other room, pouted again. "Come now, Joly. Don't you know the correct method of driving out all, ah... rational thought from a woman's mind?"

Joly apparently had a good guess, as he pushed Musichetta against the wall (being rather careless about shutting the door to Courfeyrac's room, or minding the door out of the apartment) and began kissing her passionately.

"I hope I am not disturbing you," Enjolras said dryly, standing in the doorway to the apartment.

Joly very hurriedly broke away from his now laughing mistress, and began rearranging his clothes. "Ah, euh- Enjolras! You, ah... here. Yes, you are!"

"I am."

"Yes, er, night... thing, always here, I ah... at night I mean. With Courfeyrac... in there?"

Enjolras's lips twitched. "Yes, I believe so."

"Yes, there... in...."

"I think Joly is trying to say, go ahead in," said Musichetta, who was entirely fine with her mussed hair and half-unbuttoned bodice.

"Thank you," said Enjolras, who did, however, take care to shut the door to the bedroom very firmly behind him.

"You seem to have flustered Joly," said Courfeyrac, looking up from his game of solitaire and grinning.

"It appears so," said Enjolras.

"You mustn't blame him. Many's the time I've hung off of a new mistress like ivy around a tree. One cannot help oneself, you know."

"Really?"

"Yes, really. There is no need to raise your eyebrows at me. Being in the first throes of love is the most delightful feeling one can imagine. One simply cannot contain oneself—one simply has to kiss. You cannot always tell someone you love them, you know; it's easier to show it than to tell it."

Enjolras seemed skeptical. "Hm."

"Come now, Enjolras. It's fun."

"Perhaps it is. I have no quarrel with anyone who thinks so, though I am not of the same opinion."

"Well, you've never kissed anyone have you?" asked Courfeyrac. "It's a great deal of fun for both participants. You ought to try it."

Enjolras very clearly did not believe him, and pulled out his copy of  _The Social Contract_  to demonstrate that the conversation was very definitely over.

"Well," said Courfeyrac, who did not like to give up an argument he felt he could win, "you allow me to kiss you when I see you."

"That is different," said Enjolras, not looking up from his book.

"How so? I kiss you on the cheeks because I am happy to see you and have no better way of expressing it. You have admitted as much yourself."

"You kiss everyone on the cheek."

"Not everyone! I… alright,  _mostly_ everyone, but you accept that I express my love for others, even you, by kisses?"

"May I ask to what these questions tend?"

Courfeyrac tried his most charming grin, which at least had the effect of making Enjolras fidget with his book and close it instead of applying himself to it with his usual single-minded determination. "There is no real purpose. I am bored and looking for a debate. You do accept that a kiss may be an expression of love?"

"Yes," said Enjolras. "I am more used to seeing it as an expression of baser passions."

"Ha, I knew it. Still, a gesture can mean different things depending on the situation and the people involved. When I kissed the cross the other night, did you think I loved Jesus carnally?"

Enjolras looked vaguely amused. "No."

"When I kiss you do you think I do not respect your spirit and mean only to shove you against a wall and have my way with you because I am so blinded by the golden shine of your hair I can express nothing but lust?"

"Well, Socrates," said Enjolras, opening his book again, "it appears you have proven me wrong. My background darkens my understanding. Courfeyrac, if you are looking for reassurance again, then I am happy to provide it. I am not offended when you kiss me."

"Enjolras, on the one hand, I am glad that you understand me, and on the other, that makes me so terribly sad for you." Courfeyrac gave up on his round of solitaire and reshuffled the cards. "Surely it could not have been as bad as all that? Did some elder boy try to force you?"

"It never got to that. This is not an interesting conversation."

Courfeyrac began setting up a new game. Enjolras felt uncomfortable enough to say something instead of just ending the conversation by doing something else; that was interesting. Courfeyrac's curiosity was piqued. " _I_  find it very interesting. I don't want to have spent most of our friendship offending you. Really, you ought to have said something before if my greetings grated upon your nerves."

"You do not offend me, Courfeyrac. I will repeat it as many times as necessary."

"Ah, good. I may be an iconoclast, but I hope I am a goodnatured one. Still, Enjolras, to have never been kissed and to have such a low opinion of it… did someone tell you it was a sin? Or no, I suppose…." Courfeyrac searched his mind for the more ludicrous plots from his favorite trashy novels. "A lecherous librarian, desirous of having you to himself, distracted you each time you reached for Robespierre by trying to force his attention—"

"Courfeyrac, stop your nonsense," Enjolras said, goaded into a response. "If you wish to know, I was ignored until I was fourteen, at which point I attracted far too much attention; I believed it was because I had found something worthwhile to say, but it was simply because I became good-looking. If I tried to talk to any interested boy of ideals, or of principles, he understood nothing but his own lust. This gave him some odd right to my person, and some equally odd permission to ignore my principles. The liberty of one citizen ends where the liberty of another citizen begins—it had no meaning to them at all. My ideals were nothing, I was nothing; it was nothing but a superficial attraction for them, and for me, a distraction from the ideals that so consumed me. "

Courfeyrac looked at him measuringly. "And that turned you away from kissing forever, because, to you, poor soul, it was what happened when you failed to connect to someone rather than when you succeeded. Oh Enjolras I am incredibly sorry. I had thought as much but I had sincerely hoped that I was wrong. That is decidedly not how it should be. A kiss ought to be a celebration of understanding, a manifestation of affection!"

"Perhaps," said Enjolras.

"I think you went to the wrong school," said Courfeyrac. "Poor Enjolras, they have taught you nothing but falsehoods."

"Yes, and?" asked Enjolras, by now genuinely uninterested in the conversation.

"Can you really bear to live without the truth?" said Courfeyrac, feigning interest in his cards. "Perhaps I have mistaken your character, my friend, but I have always thought you possessed a veritable passion for the absolute. Can you live with yourself, knowing that you, in part, live a lie? I would think it would unsettle you to live with any falsehood."

"You are trying to provoke me," said Enjolras, closing his book. "I rejoice that you have regained your verve, but regret immensely that you are now so afflicted with ennui. Would you care to borrow  _The Social Contract_  in lieu of making wild speculations?"

Enjolras almost seemed to be teasing him, so Courfeyrac favored Enjolras with a cheeky smile, gathered his cards together and set the deck aside. "Have I provoked your curiosity at least?"

Enjolras hesitated. Ah ha, thought Courfeyrac, fighting hard not to smirk, I win.

However, the struggle was brief and Enjolras's customary self-mastery won out over any curiosity he felt. "If we must have a dispute, let it be on something of consequence. Did anyone bring you a newspaper this morning?"

"Bossuet borrowed the concierge's conservative rag for me."

"Ah, there was an editorial in it I thought particularly interesting."

They light-heartedly quarreled over the editorial and Courfeyrac brought up Rousseau and made a few soft, airy comments that made Enjolras get up and immediately sit down on the bed next to Courfeyrac, to better point out relevant passages in  _The Social Contract_. Enjolras became so wholly absorbed in his subject that he forgot the barriers he had been steadily building up between himself and Courfeyrac. He bent his own golden head close to Courfeyrac's, so very near that their curls intermingled. Enjolras even went so far as to touch Courfeyrac on the inside of his wrist to call his attention to a particular line.

Courfeyrac took almost unscrupulous advantage of it. He leaned on Enjolras's shoulder and scooted nearer to him, to better see the book, of course, and could not possibly make a point without touching Enjolras on the arm on the hand, just to make sure Enjolras was paying attention. It was an interesting sort of flirtation, to be sure, an in-depth philosophical discussion over Rousseau that had really ceased to be about Rousseau soon after it started, a delicate sounding out of personal boundaries, all of which seemed to crumble as soon as Courfeyrac spotted them. Enjolras reacted to Courfeyrac's touch almost without thinking, leaning closer and responding in kind until Courfeyrac was very nearly sitting in Enjolras's lap.

"We are no longer talking of Rousseau, are we?" asked Enjolras, almost distantly.

"I don't believe we have been for some time," replied Courfeyrac.

Enjolras hesitated a moment, then leaned towards Courfeyrac.

Courfeyrac acted on the invitation before he even realized what it was. Enjolras did not entirely know how to react; he allowed Courfeyrac to kiss him, but did not seem to quite understand he ought to kiss back. Well, perhaps it wasn't interesting or enjoyable for Enjolras after all. Feeling slightly disappointed, Courfeyrac began to pull back. It was at that point that Enjolras seized Courfeyrac by the waist, almost yanked him forward and kissed him with a bewildering intensity that left Courfeyrac breathless and too stunned for coherent thought. He almost didn't have to think; the action was familiar, though it was a delightfully new variation, and the motions came easily. He tangled his hands in Enjolras's hair, as, he had to admit, he had wanted to do for ages, and kissed back with equal fervor. Enjolras was certainly, startlingly more passionate than anyone else Courfeyrac had ever kissed, and though he did not exactly whimper with disappointment when Enjolras pulled away, he did verbally but wordlessly express his disapproval.

Enjolras smiled a little, but balanced his elbows on his knees, clasped his hands together, pressing them against his lips, and stared at the fire. Enjolras was always looking at some light source when lost in thought, and Enjolras's penchant for taking symbolism at face value and seeking a rather more literal enlightenment than one might expect struck Courfeyrac as newly endearing.

"My dear fellow, you cannot just end things like that," said Courfeyrac, draping himself around Enjolras and resting his chin on Enjolras's shoulder.

"I should not have started them," said Enjolras.

"Nonsense," replied Courfeyrac. "You were following the natural impulse."

"Natural? Courfeyrac, we are not bored adolescents with nothing better to do, we are grown men, we are revolutionaries—"

"Do you think I am trying to lure you away from your ideals and into boarding school sodomy?" asked Courfeyrac, drawing back and feeling rather offended. "I mean, everyone goes through a stage of schoolboy infatuation, they have to, I'm convinced, but... my God, Enjolras, I may not have your seriousness of purpose, but do you really think of me as some stupid schoolboy?"

"That was not what I meant." Enjolras took one of Courfeyrac's hands almost uncertainly. "It… I am not accustomed to… this is not…."

"You do not wish to be taken for a schoolboy again?" asked Courfeyrac. "Or perhaps—Enjolras, can it  _possibly_ be that I have actually managed to nettle you past the point of endurance?"

Enjolras looked down at their joined hands, his golden hair sliding forward to mask his expression. "It is not that."

"What then?"

Enjolras let out an angry puff of air. "I am not accustomed to uncertainty."

"I realize that."

"I am not… in the past, there have been… offers of this sort, as if I was fourteen again, and suddenly valued not because I had discovered the truth, or because I had something worthwhile to say, but because I had golden hair and a lithe figure. Grantaire has insinuated as much—but what… claim does another have on me, particularly a claim of this… intensity without any understanding of my character or my ideals? I do not mean that you are incapable of understanding, I mean to say that this is not… others, in the past… made me offers of this nature and even recently, Grantaire has begun hinting at it, as if we were both schoolboys with nothing better to do, nothing higher to think of than half-shameful pleasure in the darkness. What sort of a way is that to pass one's life? To be forever stuck in ignorance, to mistake the soul's longing for the ideal for a hedonistic search that ends in disgust and disillusionment—I do not want that."

"To you, kissing is a failure of communication," said Courfeyrac. "Or, rather, the end of an attempt to connect—I feel devilishly sorry for you. It isn't that, it's a gesture of trust."

"Or lust."

"Enjolras, I would be the last to deny that you are distractingly handsome, particularly when you have one of those speeches of yours that seem like some overflowing of the soul, but I didn't kiss you because of that." Courfeyrac began stroking the back of Enjolras's hand with his thumb. "I kissed you because you seemed interested—"

"Yes, I invited you to," replied Enjolras, with some irritation.

"—very true, and because I thought it might make you happy." Courfeyrac smoothed back the golden hair at Enjolras's temple. His hair was very soft and Courfeyrac could not quite resist the urge to stroke it. "It has always been your soul that has intrigued me, not your person. If it had been the latter as opposed to the former, I would have given up on you shortly into our friendship, when I pointed out that you rotated through the same five waistcoats and you refused to see any problem what-so-ever with that. You  _still_ do not. Or when you decided not to bother cutting your hair for a year—I was almost ashamed to be seen with you, but did I ever stop listening to you?"

"No."

"Exactly. I realize you see your body as you do your voice—something to be trained in service of the republic and to be used to communicate and not something to be particularly noticed or admired when not in service of the ideal—but since this fleshy envelope of yours is so permeated by a soul that occasionally blinds one with its brilliance, it is easy for one to mistake the beauties of the spirit with the beauties of the body. I fancy that I do not. Besides, I am not offering the sort of fleshy, empty satisfaction Grantaire does, though it is, admittedly, extremely fun. I am offering you the friendship of a Jonathan for a David."

Enjolras gripped Courfeyrac's hand. "Why?"

"Why? Because… to be quite honest, Enjolras, no one should think of kissing as the end of understanding."

"To educate me?"

"To make you happy," said Courfeyrac, a little reprovingly. "I care for you very deeply, my friend, and, in fact, I dare Harmodius to prove that his love for Aristogeiton is any truer or stronger than mine for you."

"You wield Plato against me?"

"I was talking about it with Musichetta earlier. I can't remember the exact phrase that made her nearly swoon with ecstasy, but it was something like… the love between Aristogiton and Harmodius grew so strong that it shattered the power of the tyrants of Athens. Wherever, therefore, it has been established that it is shameful to be involved in sexual relationships with men, this is due to evil on the part of the rulers, and to cowardice in the part of the governed." He very gently pressed a kiss to Enjolras's hair. "Now, if there is a very good example of having both sorts of passion, for the real and the ideal, and being the stronger for it. Besides, I have a goal that you may see as unimportant, but which means the world to me: I wish to make you happy. And if I ever fail in making your happy, you have only to tell me to get me to stop. I may sulk for an evening afterwards, but I will have gotten over it by the morning." He leaned his head against Enjolras's, sliding his hand down to rest at the back of Enjolras's neck. "And does it worry you, perhaps, that you liked it?"

Enjolras leaned against Courfeyrac. "I… perhaps."

Courfeyrac grinned. "Ha. I've never had anyone complain yet. But more seriously, I somehow doubt that lust enters into the equation for you… ha, does it?"

Enjolras had looked away and hunched his shoulders. They had been slight movements, nearly unnoticeable, but Courfeyrac, feeling far too affectionate to contain himself, had once again draped himself around Enjolras's shoulders and was almost dislodged.

"There's no need to be ashamed of  _that_ ," said Courfeyrac, highly amused. "I am a devilishly attractive fellow, you know. Musichetta told me she'd run off with me at once if she hadn't been morally certain Joly would throw himself in the Seine if she left him."

Though Enjolras would never do anything as undignified as sulk, he was certainly doing something like it.

"Come now, Enjolras. Just because you have passions for something other than your ideals does not mean your passion for those absolutes has dimmed at all. See Aristogiton and Harmodius for details. Why… even more immediately, does Combeferre love his motherland any less for still loving his mother?"

"No," said Enjolras.

"See?"

"Not really. And there are...."

"I don't feel degraded in the slightest," Courfeyrac pointed out. "In fact, I am terribly flattered. You shall make me think far too well of myself."

Enjolras did not seem convinced. "I have approached this very selfishly, Courfeyrac. I thought of only myself and my pleasures in the advance—"

"And you are, in fact, doing it again," Courfeyrac said lightly, tapping Enjolras on the side of his neck. "I have told you, however couched in classical terms, that I am falling in love with you and am at the stage where your happiness ensures mine. Besides, I take the same if not more pleasure from it as you do. You are in no way using me or degrading me, though I am terribly touched that it worries you that you are."

"Courfeyrac," Enjolras said, "you are...."

"Right?"

"Occasionally insufferable."

"Come now, you can get me to shut up very quickly if you kiss me." He grinned.

Enjolras continued to stare at the fire. "Do you quite understand the gravity of the situation? If we are not... no, if  _I_ am not careful, my baser nature—"

Courfeyrac pouted. "Enjolras, my dear boy, you have been blinded by false religion. What part of a Greek friendship of this sort is at all base? It is an ennobling experience. Besides, I am only trying to show you another manner in which you may be happy."

Enjolras stared at the fire in lieu of any other response.

"What? Don't believe me?" Courfeyrac brushed aside Enjolras's hair and kissed his temple. "Will allow me to try to persuade you, at least?"

Enjolras did not so much smile as try to suppress it. "I do not think I could stop you."


	5. Chapter Five

Though Courfeyrac was loath to admit it, because it would be admitting his parents were right on something more important than the best discard in a game of whist, he had a mind perfectly formed for the law courts. There was almost nothing he liked better than winning someone over to his point of view. One of his more literary mistresses had pointed out that it was because winning a court case sounded remarkably like a more intellectual form of seduction- for which, as she had been even happier to point out, Courfeyrac had a very natural aptitude.

Though he was not making any headway winning Enjolras over directly, he merely switched to another argument, i.e. wasn't it about time he got up and tried walking a bit? Enjolras attempted to quell this notion with a particularly disapproving look as he disentangled himself from Courfeyrac and went to dress. Courfeyrac very much enjoyed the view, and was rather disappointed when Enjolras pulled on a clean shirt.

"I really think—" Courfeyrac began.

"Stay in bed."

"Shall you hold me to it?" Courfeyrac said innocently.

Enjolras blinked at him then, clearly fighting the urge to smile, said, "You are incorrigible."

"You know you love me for it."

Enjolras returned his attention to the buttons of his trousers. "You are very sure of yourself."

"I am held to be generally rather lovable," said Courfeyrac. "I'm sorry, did I go too far? I know you… Enjolras, there is nothing wrong with it. I will say it until you believe it."

"Hm," he replied, pulling on his waistcoat and buttoning it deftly.

"Perhaps I could show you?" suggested Courfeyrac, with his most charming smile. Considering how charming his smiles tended to be when he wasn't being so deliberately, this was extraordinarily effective. Enjolras's fingers slipped and Enjolras, eyes on Courfeyrac, could not quite manage to find the final button on his waistcoat again.

"That would be unwise," said Enjolras, groping vaguely for his button.

Courfeyrac pouted. "Come on, Enjolras. I know we kissed, but I won't do it again if you don't want me to. A kiss loses all meaning if it doesn't inspire mutual pleasure."

Enjolras, after a moment's hesitation, made a sweeping motion with his hand, as if clearing papers off his desk, his usual sign of having reached a decision about someone. He sat on the very edge of the bed and looked thoughtfully at Courfeyrac. "That is the problem."

"You want me to?" Courfeyrac laughed, but he tugged gently on Enjolras's arm. "That can be very easily arranged, you know. You only have to ask."

"That is another part of the problem," said Enjolras, though he let himself be dragged closer.

Courfeyrac very gently caressed Enjolras's cheek. "Is it?"

After a moment, Enjolras tilted his head to kiss Courfeyrac's palm. "A terrible one."

"With a very simple solution," protested Courfeyrac, unable to keep himself from smiling.

Enjolras, lips still pressed to Courfeyrac's palm, looked up at that, his blue eyes breathtakingly intense. "Is it all that simple?"

"Almost overwhelmingly so," Courfeyrac replied. "Of course, we shall have to unravel all your complications about it first, but I find happiness to always be simple, and love, that great bringer of joy, to be the simplest of all. One has but to say, 'I love' to be understood." He leaned forward, still smiling. "And sometimes not even that."

Enjolras understood at once.

It was the first time Enjolras had obviously initiated a kiss with anyone, and he was endearingly awkward about it. He seemed almost afraid to touch his lips to Courfeyrac's until Courfeyrac very pointedly flung an arm around Enjolras's shoulders and drew him closer.

Enjolras was really very perceptive.

He responded at once, pulling Courfeyrac towards him and kissing back with enough passion to make Courfeyrac forget that Enjolras had ever been tentative about it. Courfeyrac tangled his hands in Enjolras's hair again- he really couldn't help himself- and pressed himself against Enjolras.

There was something very thrilling in kissing Enjolras, and Courfeyrac was all the more excited because, this time, Enjolras had initiated it. Courfeyrac supposed it was Enjolras's tactile tendencies coming to the fore: Enjolras, eloquent as he was, could express so much with a touch. A touch of the lips was therefore something exceptional.

"I almost wish I had seen you with your hair à la Saint-Just," said Courfeyrac, tugging gently on Enjolras's golden hair and causing Enjolras to tilt his head to the side.

"I was fond of it like that," said Enjolras, somewhat dazedly, as Courfeyrac was now pressing his lips to Enjolras's neck. Enjolras fisted a hand in Courfeyrac's own curls and Courfeyrac, feeling very virtuous (among other things), did not mind the ruin of his coiffure at all.

"I have a terrible weakness for long, loose hair," Courfeyrac informed the side of Enjolras's neck. "It's almost as severe as the weakness I have for your smiles, my dear friend. A smile from you, even at the beginning of our friendship, would have been enough to convince me to invade Russia."

"I would prefer you to remain in France," said Enjolras.

"And to keep doing this?" Courfeyrac teased.

Enjolras shuddered quite eloquently, and tipped his head back to allow Courfeyrac better access. Courfeyrac was only too happy to oblige the unspoken request.

Enjolras groaned softly.

Courfeyrac nipped gently at Enjolras's shoulder. "Am I being convincing?"

"Far too convincing," Enjolras replied, a little breathlessly.

"Oh good," said Courfeyrac, and felt that he was understandably sulky when Enjolras drew away and pressed his fingertips to Courfeyrac's lips to forestall any further persuasion.

Courfeyrac pouted. "I thought I was developing a promising line of argument."

Enjolras shook his head to clear it, the mussed waves of his golden hair swinging across his face. "You… were."

"So afraid of being won over to my way of seeing things?"

"Courfeyrac—" Enjolras cut himself off and pressed his lips together. "I… am not one to enter into anything lightly. I form very lasting passions. I know myself well enough to say that. If I allow myself to become attached to something, I become attached for life."

Courfeyrac looked at him quizzically. "And…?"

Enjolras looked somewhat anguished, so Courfeyrac slung an arm around his shoulders and kissed his temple. "Well, I knew that before," Courfeyrac said. "I accept and love you for who you are, from your absolute passions to your shabby waistcoats- you really must let me buy you a new one- to the way you don't appreciate music, but almost sound like you're singing when you're having one of your outbursts of soul."

Enjolras leaned into Courfeyrac's touch almost desperately. "You are making this very hard."

"On the contrary," said Courfeyrac, grinning, "I think I am making this very easy."

"I stand corrected," said Enjolras, with something very close to a smile.

Courfeyrac leaned down and kissed him. "And now it's even easier."

Enjolras actually smiled.

"See, there we are. I promised to make you happy and now I actually have you smiling. It's a mutually beneficial system, my dear friend. I am quite practiced in the art of making people happy and, like any true artist, I revel in my well-crafted successes."

Enjolras hesitated.

"Shall I be relentlessly charming at you?"

He snorted. "I somehow doubt your ability to be anything else."

"I think there was a compliment in there somewhere."

Someone knocked on the door. "Hallo, it's locked," said Joly. "Courfeyrac? You alright?"

"Of course it's locked," Musichetta said quickly. "Enjolras is probably getting dressed again. The poor thing looked so awkward when you and Combeferre didn't get the hint and let him change in private."

' _She must think I move_ very  _fast,_ ' thought Courfeyrac, with some amusement. He managed to steal a final kiss before Enjolras yanked open the door. "Good morning Joly, Musichetta."

He sounded slightly breathless. Musichetta quite happily misinterpreted this and  _beamed_ at Courfeyrac. "Good morning! Sleep well?"

"Yes, thank you," said Enjolras, a little puzzled by her look of glee. "I believe Courfeyrac did as well."

Musichetta choked out something about breakfast and had to leave the room.

Joly looked after her, bemused. "Well, Courfeyrac, what sorts of private jokes have you been making with my mistress?"

"Only very serious ones, I assure you," said Courfeyrac. "You do have all the luck, Joly. A more good-natured, good-humored girl I've yet to meet! Or a more sympathetic one."

"You promised you wouldn't seduce her," said Joly, a little anxiously.

Courfeyrac eyed the dose of laudanum Joly was attempting to mix with some misgivings. "I can very honestly say that I have no interest in seducing Musichetta. Even if I could actually move my thigh without wincing, it would be a lost cause." He managed to catch Enjolras's eye over Joly's head. "I have a startling lack of base passions at the moment. My sentiments are almost painfully pure." Enjolras looked as if he was going to say something but abruptly knelt down to tie his bootlaces. Courfeyrac turned his gaze back to Joly's bent head. "Besides, Musichetta thought you'd throw yourself in the Seine if she did and she didn't want your death hanging over her."

"That is immeasurably reassuring," said Joly.

"Well that and the fact that she loves you. Those are both very reassuring. What is not reassuring is how many drops of opium you have added to that dose. I thought I was coming off the laudanum. You've been giving me less. I'm getting very tired of the stuff regardless. It's got such a cloying aftertaste."

"Eh? Oh." Joly hesitated a moment, and then began stirring the opiate in until the liquid turned cloudy. "Combeferre's coming over. We're removing your stitches."

"Oh hooray," said Courfeyrac, glumly watching Joly's progress. "That sounds like such fun."

"It happens to be good news," Joly replied, though he did not sound terribly reassuring. "It means you are healing well. We may even have you out of bed and walking soon enough. It only hurts when you move it, right?"

"And when you remove stitches from it," Courfeyrac pointed out. "I hope you are prepared for either wails of pain, or very creative things I'm planning to do to your mother in Provençal."

"You will have so much laudanum in you the only wailing you will hear will be a woman for her demon lover," said Joly. "Besides, Enjolras and Bahorel said they could hold you down."

"That doesn't make it hurt any less," objected Courfeyrac. "Or make me any less willing to insinuate things about your paternity in a patois you probably will not understand."

"Thank the Divine Watchmaker for such small favors," Joly said dryly. "Here, take it."

"On an empty stomach?"

"It's more effective that way."

"I hate you."

"I know." Joly grinned. "It's a doctor's prerogative to earn the enmity of his patients. Medicine is full of strong spirits, eh?"

"That pun was  _awful_. You take the sedative before you come out with anything worse." Courfeyrac drank the laudanum anyways and felt that he really oughtn't to have become as disoriented as he did. Surely one built up a tolerance to these sorts of things? He thought about asking Joly how much laudanum he had been given, but then Combeferre arrived and Courfeyrac became just  _fascinated_ with the way the light reflected off of Combeferre's glasses and forgot.

"Courfeyrac?" Combeferre waved a hand in front of Courfeyrac's face. "Joly, I think you overdosed."

"Did I?" Joly asked anxiously.

"You did," Enjolras agreed, eyeing Courfeyrac with something like amusement. "I believe we already discovered that Courfeyrac is extremely susceptible to opiates."

Courfeyrac shook his head to clear it, and realized, quite unhappily, that his hair was falling out of its curls already. He would have to ask Musichetta for her curling iron. It was really so depressing to look ill-groomed. Courfeyrac attempted to see the extent of the damage by pulling at a sadly limp curl until it frizzed into a god-awful tangle.

"Is it alright to proceed with him this… er…?" Joly tapped his forehead.

"Not to worry," said Bahorel, who had been leaning in the doorway, watching Courfeyrac keenly for any signs of permanent injury. "I can provide a practical solution." Without any further ado, he took the pitcher of water by the bedside and dumped its contents on Courfeyrac's head.

The shock of it caused Courfeyrac, woozy as he was, to start spluttering indignantly and to forget entirely about his (now probably ruined) hair. "What the hell, Bahorel? I- ugh- you're just a goddamn sadist."

"Next time find one that does not require the ruin of my bed linens," Joly said, somewhat sourly. "I don't know what I'm going to say to Musichetta. She's already being deliberately calm about how we keep turning the dining room table into an operating table, and that's never a good sign."

Bahorel winced. "Very true. Speaking of said table, shall I transport Courfeyrac there?"

"I can walk!" protested Courfeyrac.

"And then can fall and break an arm," replied Combeferre, holding his glasses up to the light to examine the lenses.

"I am not—"

"Oh you delicate flower, you," said Bahorel, scooping up Courfeyrac with a decided lack of ceremony. "You got a letter from your father, by the way."

"Reading my mail, dumping pitchers of water over my head in winter while I am floating away Romantically in a sea of laudanum  _and_  taking away any scrap of dignity I had left—"

"What dignity? You do a very good job of ridding yourself of it without outside help."

Courfeyrac, slung over one of Bahorel's shoulders, much like a sack of grain, crossed his arms and sulked. "You're not helping. What am I, being taken to market?"

"Well then, princess, would you like me to carry you with all the dignity befitting your rank?"

"I'd like to  _walk_ and exercise my autonomy, thank you."

"Here's the table," said Bahorel. "Why don't you express your gratitude instead? You've been eating too many pastries."

"Oh that's low, even for you," said Courfeyrac, allowing Bahorel to inelegantly dump him onto Joly's dining room table. "Calling me fat now? You're one to talk."

"It's all muscle."

"Psh, like a field laborer."

"I'm proud of my peasant heritage,  _de_ Courfeyrac."

Courfeyrac winced and melodramatically flung an arm over his eyes. "Oh,  _must_ you fling my participle at me when I'm not prepared for it? You drag me out of my sickbed for such rampant verbal abuse—  _ow Combeferre, you could have warned me_!"

Courfeyrac flung his arm off his eyes with far less melodrama and pushed himself up to glare at Combeferre, who was very calmly poking at Courfeyrac's thigh. Combeferre absent-mindedly raked a hand through his hair, to keep it out of his eyes and said, "I believe we can proceed. Enjolras, Bahorel?"

"I don't need to be held down," Courfeyrac protested, albeit sulkily.

Enjolras, half-smiling, placed a hand on Courfeyrac's shoulder. Courfeyrac obligingly laid back. "See? I respond very well to suggestion. I am alive to the subtleties of communication."

Combeferre looked swiftly from Courfeyrac to Enjolras, with the air of a scientist trying to test a chemical reaction without going into outright experimentation. He opened his mouth to say something then, seeming to suddenly realize something, closed it again. Instead of whatever scathing one-liner Courfeyrac had metaphorically been bracing himself for; Combeferre came out with, "I see."

Enjolras briefly squeezed Courfeyrac's shoulder.

"I see," repeated Combeferre, with an odd, penetrating look at Enjolras's bowed head. "We need to take your stitches out, Courfeyrac. At least we know there was no nerve damage. Joly, can the curtains be drawn back any farther?"

Courfeyrac submitted ill-humoredly to Combeferre's ministrations and chose to swear viciously in the patois of his family's servants whenever Combeferre or Joly quite calmly asked him how he was doing. Bahorel spoke a slightly different strain of Provençal at home, but could follow Courfeyrac well enough and, further, could swap insults with him with great enjoyment.

"Well, now that no one is certain of their paternity any longer," said Combeferre, "could you please move your leg, Courfeyrac?"

Courfeyrac, in the pleasantest tone he could manage, asked Combeferre to do something anatomically impossible first.

"I do understand that, even if I do not choose to respond in kind," replied Combeferre, wiping off a pair of scissors. "Courfeyrac, the only way to have a unified, educated populace is with the adoption of one language. Do not persist in ignorance."

Courfeyrac grudgingly moved his leg and said, in proper French this time, "Might I not be allowed a little self-expression?"

"Some forms of self-expression really are not acceptable in contemporary society," replied Combeferre. "I would advise you not to pursue them, or, at the very least, to stop them at once. This is not a free society, no matter how we work towards making it one."

Courfeyrac was surprised at the sharpness of Combeferre's tone, as was Bahorel.

"Come now," said Bahorel. "I know you had vague ambitions at one point to enter the Academy, but that is no reason to keep us from random spurts of vulgarity."

Combeferre set the scissors aside and began tidying up his surgical equipment, some of his dark hair sliding forward into his eyes. He ran a hand through it again, to keep it back, and pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose before turning to look at Courfeyrac. When he spoke again, he was much calmer, but no less disapproving. "Spurts of vulgarity? If that is what you wish to call it- fine, you may do as you please, and far be it from me to impose my morality on your actions, but do not drag anyone else into it."

Enjolras walked over and laid his hand on Combeferre's forearm; Combeferre tensed.

"What is troubling you, my friend?" asked Enjolras, with a gentleness that would surprise anyone who did not know him well.

Combeferre looked at him quite levelly. "Are you really so blind to reality, Enjolras?"

Enjolras removed his hand, clearly taken aback. "I do not have the pleasure of understanding you."

"No, I don't believe that you do."

Joly, tidying up, was clearly baffled, and shared a speaking look with Bahorel and Courfeyrac. Bahorel shrugged. Courfeyrac had a vague idea of what was going on, but was beginning to get a headache from exhaustion and the laudanum and closed his eyes. He really did not want to deal with all this at the moment.

With an attitude of determined cheerfulness, Joly said, "Well, princess, sleeping on the wood—"

"It's the beauty sleeping  _in_  the wood," said Courfeyrac, not bothering to open his eyes. "Return to your Perrault, Jolllly, really."

"Only if you return to your bed," said Joly. "I changed the sheets and stuck the pillow to dry on a chair by the fire. Fortunately for us, the pillow absorbed most of the water."

"Tsk, tsk, so accusatory," said Bahorel. "Fortunately, your mistress is friends with mine. I shall appoint her as my representative in the delicate negotiation of pillow replacement. Up you get, Courfeyrac—"

Courfeyrac, by now really quite tired, and no longer angry or ill-tempered enough to keep himself awake, allowed himself to be picked up and carried back to the bedroom to the strained argument between Enjolras and Combeferre.

"It grieves me to disagree with you—"

"Enjolras, it is not a matter of whether you agree or disagree with me, it is far more serious."

"I am alive to the gravity of the situation."

"Are you  _really_?"

" _Yes_ \- the problems are on my side and I know them and can guard against them."

"I very much doubt that, Enjolras."

' _Oh hell,_ ' thought Courfeyrac, half-asleep, ' _things are going to be dreadfully awkward in the morning._ ' He supposed he fell asleep, as, when he opened his eyes again he was in Joly's bedroom with the curtains drawn and the fire lit. He blinked, disoriented by the shadows flickering on the walls, like some stage effect in a moralistic melodrama, transforming quite ordinary things like the bookshelf and the water pitcher into something odd and unknown. Were those shadows the chairs by the bedside or something more sinister? The imagination was such a sublime force, according to Jehan- but it had such frightening power at times. It seemed so dark out, even though there was a fire in the hearth.

Courfeyrac looked around distractedly. "Where's Enjolras?"

"Not here, sweetheart," said Musichetta, not looking up from a rip in the lining of one of Joly's coats. She was sitting on a rug by the fire, her sewing basket beside her, and her hair in a loose braid again, her profile outlined in gold by the fire's glow. "I try not to listen in on conversations when Feuilly actually sits back and listens and everyone ends up staggering their exits far too causally. I like making up stories, but I'm terrible at telling them- particularly to the police."

"And they left me?" Courfeyrac asked.

"Well, Citizen Saint-Just… you're more of a Couthon at the moment aren't you? I'm sorry the Committee didn't consult you before sending off various representatives on mission." Musichetta tilted her head to the side, stuck several pins in the coat to hold the torn lining together and began sorting through her basket for the right color of thread.

"They could have got me a chair like Couthon and taken me along," said Courfeyrac, knowing his protests were illogical and still wanting to protest anyways. "God, I hate being on laudanum. I'm not used to being so- so out of body. Are they coming back at all tonight?"

Musichetta picked up a spool of thread and held it up to the firelight. "Hm, more black than blue. Joly said he would be back by eleven."

Courfeyrac decided that meant Enjolras would arrive around midnight and felt much better. Irrationally, he missed the sight of Enjolras in front of the fire, his hair seeming to reflect the light, his figure outlined in red and gold from the fire behind him and his rare smiles dispelling any possible darkness. "Everyone went?"

"Yes-Enjolras too." Musichetta looked up from her threads with a wicked smile. "By the way, it's taken  _considerable_ self-control not to shake you awake and demand details."

Courfeyrac grinned. "Ah, there's a story that I wish was more interesting than it is."

"Tell it anyways!" Musichetta begged, abandoning her sewing at once to sit in of the chairs by Courfeyrac's bed.

"Well," said Courfeyrac, "I did kiss him. Then we spent the rest of the evening exploring Enjolras's various emotional hang-ups and his really odd idea that he would somehow be taking advantage of me. It was sort of sweet, except, at the end of it, I felt so horribly bad for him and it seemed like he was going to pass the night staring at the fire and brooding over his iniquities. Fortunately, he's too tactile to be terribly standoffish, so, despite continuing emotional hang-ups on his part, he did wake up in my arms and seemed perfectly content to do so."

Musichetta had her hands clapped over her mouth, but Courfeyrac could see her smile anyways. "That is  _too cute_!"

"Is it?" said Courfeyrac, highly amused.

"Of course it is!" said Musichetta, positively  _beaming_ at him. "That is just… I sort of want to melt from how adorable that is. Oh my. That is just  _too_ cute. You know, Courfeyrac, I think this might be terribly good for Enjolras."

"Do you, now?" asked Courfeyrac, with a rather knowing smile.

Musichetta flashed him a positively  _wicked_ smile in return. "Of course I do! I'm not an expert at pinning down a person's character, but I think I'm perceptive enough. You, dear boy, are all warmth, something which Enjolras lacks, as brilliant and practically luminescent as he is. Though… I can see where Enjolras would have issues. Granted, all I know about him is based on the past few days, a couple of accidental meetings, and conjecture from Joly and Bossuet, but still. If you are willing to trust the cards from the Tarot deck of Musichetta's Character Judgments, I think I can give you an accurate reading."

Courfeyrac laughed. "Do go on then."

Musichetta grinned. "Thank you. Alright. He clearly has the potential to love, but hasn't seen it in any workable application before, so he shoves it into the realm of the ideal, where, I think, he puts most of you. Now, I don't know if there was ever any adjustment period where he very suddenly realized you weren't perfect, of if he has been very gradually started being completely accepting of your foibles as long as you put your part in—"

"He's sort of always been like that," said Courfeyrac. "I mean, he didn't know how to react to me at first, but he figured it out pretty quickly."

"Did you meet each other before you met the rest of the Amis?" asked Musichetta.

"Well no, Combeferre and Enjolras went to the same boarding school, but Enjolras met everyone else through me."

"Ah ha, see! You're good for him already! He has his eyes on the horizon, but you expand it for him."

Courfeyrac grinned at her. "You really should take up writing gothic novels."

Musichetta blushed. "Do you think so?"

"Yes- just write what you feel, and then change one of your main character's names from Jacques to Jacqueline in the second draft. Shelley pulled that trick on Plato, after all."

"Per…haps. I think I will." Musichetta considered this carefully. "I… might. I don't think it will be very good though, I've never written anything longer than a letter before, and those were mostly notes to my eldest sister that I was still alive and still in Paris, despite all proof to the contrary."

"I'll keep it in mind when I read the first draft," said Courfeyrac.

Musichetta actually blushed. "You are too charming for your own good. It's a wonder Enjolras is still trying to hold you off."

"It's a mystery," agreed Courfeyrac, folding his arms behind his head. "Well, not much of one. His background darkens his understanding, as I think he put it. Poor fellow. I feel so desperately sorry for him sometimes. I mean, love's love as far as I know, and the very act of love is a nigh-on sacred thing. I want to punch all those boys at boarding school myself for making Enjolras confuse physical affection with power struggles."

"He's rather physical, too, isn't he?" asked Musichetta.

Courfeyrac grinned. "That he is."

Musichetta laughed. "I didn't even mean that, but is he?"

"When he gets over his various hang-ups, yes. It's beyond fantastic. No, I know what you mean." Courfeyrac blew a loose curl out of his eyes. "I need to borrow your curling iron soon, Musichetta. But, ah… no, I know what you mean."

Musichetta curled up in the chair, and rested her arms on her knees, and then her chin on her folded arms. "Well, it's such an ideal for him, the more physical aspects of it are going to terrify him, aren't they? I have a friend who's terribly tactile like that, too, and she's the head parlor maid at a Jesuit's, or, at least, she is until she can earn her dowry and go back home. I don't think she'll ever leave the household, though. She likes Paris too much and she has the oddest ideas about sex- I mean, she's so very  _friendly_  but when she falls in love, she gets convinced she's going to hell. I mean, Annette is a sweetheart, and much purer than the driven snow, as driven snow in Paris would make the Seine look clean. But any sort of physical attraction sends her into the confessional."

"I don't think Enjolras thinks of it as sin," Courfeyrac said doubtfully.

"Well lust doesn't have to be sinful to be slightly frightening," said Musichetta, "particularly to someone who's… how to put it, used to their body? Or, at least, used to expressing themselves with their body. Then one starts feeling odd, and almost as if one cannot quite trust one's own body anymore, since it's reacting in ways one is not used to and one cannot quite control. And thus, one's ability to… communicate, I suppose, just gets shot to hell. That's enough to send anyone into a panic. We have to spend hours talking Annette out of it, and even then I'm not always sure she believes us."

Courfeyrac considered this a moment. "God, I have to step carefully. I managed to slip and stick my foot in my mouth this morning, I think. Damn. I didn't realize there were quite so many ways to trip up. Poor Enjolras. It just makes one want to take him in one's arms, only that might be construed as something else."

"The course of true love never did run smooth," said Musichetta. "You've got such a warm heart though it's really quite sad to think of what Enjolras's schooldays must have been like."

They talked about Enjolras, which made Courfeyrac happy, until the clock struck midnight. Courfeyrac rubbed his forehead. "I wanted to stay up and see him."

"Poor darling," said Musichetta. "I'll let him in once he arrives and you can wake up to him in the morning."

Courfeyrac did not.

In fact, he woke up to a conspicuous lack of Enjolras and was so terribly depressed by it he pretended to be asleep when Joly came in to check on him. He spent the day moping and pretending to sleep until Feuilly came in and loudly demanded to know whether he had died yet.

"I wish," Courfeyrac said glumly. "If you have never been shot in the thigh, I advise you not to try it."

"Wasn't planning on it," Feuilly said briskly, opening the curtains and letting in the dim evening light. "Oh gray Parisian skies, you make it so expensive to see after work."

Courfeyrac struggled to push himself up and be courteous.

"Bahorel forgot to give you your mail," said Feuilly, handing over several letters.

Courfeyrac sorted through them, feeling ill inclined to open any of them. "Letter from my father... oh hell, I don't want to bother with him. Letter from my haberdasher that's probably a bill- damn, and I need a new hat too. Oh here, take this one- a friend of mine went off to Greece in a fit of Romantic enthusiasm. This has the latest on the war."

Feuilly played at nonchalance, but opened the letter and scanned its contents feverishly. "I went to where Byron ate lunch, this tree reminded me of Byron, I saw where Byron died of a fever—goddamn it, there's more important things at stake than your sodding poets, where are all the Greeks? Byron's dead!  _The Greeks_ are the ones fighting for their homelands… Sacred Band—"

"Oh, like the Sacred Band of Thebes?" Courfeyrac asked, finger-combing his hair into some semblance of order.

Feuilly looked up from the letter, distracted. "The what?"

"Sacred Band of Thebes," said Courfeyrac. "You know, the ah… ancient Greek band of warriors who, ah, all slept with each other. Men fighting for and with their male lovers and all."

"… goddamnit, are you calling  _freedom fighters_ a group of  _goddamn effetes?_ "

Courfeyrac grinned weakly. "They did have Byron as their spokesman."

"Goddamn it, not all of us can have an expensive classical education so that we can toss around references to pederasts," snarled Feuilly.

"I don't see anything wrong with pederasts," said Courfeyrac. "Perhaps it's the fault of my expensive classical education?"

"Bourgeois!"

"Hey! I resent that!"

"Aristo!"

"That's hardly better! I'm ashamed of my participle."

"You might be ashamed of it, but you do have it," Feuilly pointed out, rather acerbically. "Goddamn it, you may reject your participle, but you still have that upbringing, you aristocratic toff."

"Feuilly, really," protested Courfeyrac. "That's not fair."

Unfortunately, Feuilly was already in rant mode and could not be stopped. "Only an aristo can get away with being so damn cavalier- you get a title and you can hide all manner of goddamn nonsense behind it. Byron- there's one who sleeps with his own sister,  _and_ sodomized his wife, last I heard, and the Greeks still think he's a big damn hero. If he hadn't been a lord, he wouldn't have been tolerated. If someone in my atelier started sleeping with his sister or choirboys, he'd be treated like the unnatural creature he was!"

"If someone found out about it," pointed out Courfeyrac. "The same thing happened to Byron, if you recall. A few reports of him being mad, bad and dangerous to know from Lady Caroline Lamb, and fwooom, out of British high society he went." Courfeyrac made a little wiggling hand motion to illustrate a 'fwooom' out of British high society.

"Yeah, and he was still received as a big damn Romantic hero by the rest of the continent," replied Feuilly, displeased with the contents of the letter which, as far as Courfeyrac could tell, included some rapturous descriptions of Things That Reminded One of Byron and very little else. "No working man ever would get the same treatment. Hell, some bourgeois banker wouldn't either. It'd ruin them."

"Not necessarily- you know Fievée?"

Feuilly frowned at the letter and folded it up. "Ultra turned liberal, used to run the  _Journal de l'Empire_?"

Courfeyrac nodded. "Yeah, the one who got thrown in prison for defending freedom of the press after the Hundred Days. He lives with the playwright Leclercq, which my father says is just an example of the corruptive force of liberalism, but they're still received everywhere together. Hell, I saw them at my aunt Thérèse's salon two weeks ago."

"Yeah, and she's married to what, the younger son of a count?"

Courfeyrac cleared his throat. "Younger son of a marquis, unfortunately."

Feuilly glared at Courfeyrac and crossed his arms. "See? Aristo."

"It's not like I'm going to inherit a title!"

"Digging yourself deeper here."

They quarrelled until dinner, at which point Enjolras failed to show up for another evening and Courfeyrac hid his head under his pillow and wished he hadn't tried kissing Enjolras at all.

The next day wasn't any better. He woke up alone again, as Joly had pronounced him out of danger and just sulky from boredom instead of an imbalance of humors, and didn't see any need for someone to watch him at night. Courfeyrac pointed out that life's brief candle could flicker out at any moment and, as it was raining today, the electricity in the lightening would surely do horrors to his heart rate.

This accidentally sent Joly into a panic attack wherein Joly felt for both his and Courfeyrac's pulses every few minutes, began rearranging all the metal objects in the apartment, and had to be led out of the room by a laughing Bossuet. Bossuet did not enter into Joly's terrors and diagnosed Courfeyrac with nothing worse than a severe case of  _ennui_. His cure for this was to drag Jehan through the rain to play several rounds of whist with him, Musichetta and Courfeyrac, Joly being too panicked to participate.

Courfeyrac attempted to enjoy himself, but it was clear his heart wasn't in it, and not even the loan of Musichetta's curling iron ameliorated his temper.

"Oh, everyone's cross this week," Jehan lamented, once Bossuet made an escape before he lost any more money, and Musichetta went to go see just what the hell Joly was doing making all that noise in the front room.

"I am sorry, Jehan," Courfeyrac said. "I'm sulky as a bear, as Bahorel would say. I didn't mean to take it out on you."

Jehan blushed and pulled at a bedraggled bit of trimming on his eighteenth century frockcoat. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to reprimand you for rightfully being disgruntled that the chill embrace of death was driven from you so that you could linger in torment in your sickbed, which I see isn't half as Romantic as one would wish it- but it really is all too distressing. I never realized how much you kept us together."

"I'm touched," said Courfeyrac, grinning, albeit reluctantly, "but what's happened?"

After glancing around to make sure they were alone, Jehan leaned forward and whispered, "Combeferre and Enjolras are upset with each other."

"Wait, what?" asked Courfeyrac. "Is that even possible?"

"I hadn't thought so," lamented Jehan, "but it really- oh my nerves are all aflutter, I  _hate_ it when anything divides the fraternal bonds that bind us together as the grave binds together all of humanity. I am almost tempted to break out Lamartine, to assuage my sorrows in his elegant descriptions of the grave. That or  _Werther,_ but then I would have to go find a cliff somewhere, and Paris doesn't have any good ones. There is some sort of miscommunication between Enjolras and Combeferre, which  _never_ happens- it must be that- it cannot be anything else. Enjolras is deeply miserable, Combeferre is quarrelsome… once they talk it out they shall be friends again."

"Do you know what that miscommunication is?" asked Courfeyrac, who had his own suspicions. "They were snippy with each other when I last saw them a few days ago, but those rare disagreements of theirs tend to blow over after five minutes of quiet conversation."

"No- I mean, it cannot be as serious as a  _difference of opinion_ , can it?"Jehan looked so miserably unhappy that Courfeyrac took Jehan's hand and squeezed it.

"Oh, if it is, I'm sure I can talk them both into a reconciliation." Courfeyrac kept his tone deliberately light and airy. "They so rarely disagree. It must be terribly upsetting to both of them."

"Castor and Pollux are rent asunder," Jehan agreed. "There is a union in death, where their twin stars—"

"Hopefully it will not take death to reunite them," said Courfeyrac. "We shall save that as our last option."

Jehan considered this far too seriously for comfort. "Yes, I suppose you are quite right. Though death puts things in perspective, the agreements she forges between friends do not tend to last very long, though through no fault of  _their_ own. But when the trumpets blow and the dead rise from their graves—"

Courfeyrac wished Joly had not given him another dose of laudanum that morning. He was tired of being on medication. Besides which, Courfeyrac was beginning to hallucinate again, and Jehan's enthusiastic description of the Day of Judgment was really not helping. "Oh yes, I… actually see that. You know, I really do not like laudanum. I am a terrible Romantic. I shall be kicked out of said school for an inability to apply myself correctly to its central teachings."

"You  _see it_?" demanded Jehan, quite beside himself with glee. "Tell me, skeletal figures, or angelic ones?"

"Both, now that you mention it," said Courfeyrac. "I wish you would  _stop_ mentioning it, Jehan. Apocalyptic visions may make your day, but they are making me feel decidedly uneasy."

Jehan apologized at once, blushing like a schoolgirl, and tucked Courfeyrac into bed to sleep off his ill-humor. Courfeyrac slept uneasily, still dreaming of archangels and divine judgment, and thought he saw Enjolras, holding a candle, come and lean over him. Enjolras kissed his forehead, however, so Courfeyrac decided it was a dream and merely smiled. It was a far sight better than terrifying, skeletal figures wielding flaming swords that in no way illuminated the darkness.

"Did I wake you?" asked Enjolras, so softly Courfeyrac was not sure if he imagined it.

"Do I dream or do I wake?" Courfeyrac inquired, out of general curiosity.

Enjolras smiled at him uncertainly and touched his fingertips to Courfeyrac's forehead. "Keats?"

"Mm, not a dream, if you're checking my citations," said Courfeyrac, pushing himself up to lean on his elbows. "I had such odd ones. Dreams I mean, not citations."

Enjolras put the candle down, looking worried. "Did you?"

"Oh no, no feverish nightmares," replied Courfeyrac. "Just the goddamn laudanum. I'm beginning to hate the stuff. Oh, that and Jehan visited, so I keep thinking I see the dead rising from their graves. I know I'm technically supposed to believe in all that, but it's not exactly the sort of thing that will lull one into restful slumbers."

"Poor Courfeyrac," said Enjolras, smoothing the curls off of Courfeyrac's forehead.

"That and you didn't come see me for two days," said Courfeyrac, very lightly, so as not to show how irrationally upset he'd been. "Don't think I didn't notice just because Joly and Combeferre doubled my dosage. Jehan told me that you had enough time to start quarreling with Combeferre. Surely you had the time to dash off a note? 'I know I always come in the evenings, and they are the highlight of your day, but tonight I am too busy feuding with my best friend'."

Enjolras paused. "Jehan told you?"

"Yes."

Enjolras looked away from Courfeyrac, though he twined one of Courfeyrac's curls around his fingers. He was silent until he decisively smoothed down Courfeyrac's hair and stood up again. "I am sorry I did not come."

"I ought to sulk at you, but I'd miss you smiling at me. Are you really feuding with Combeferre?"

Enjolras hesitated. "I would not call it 'feuding'."

"Oh Enjolras, I am sorry," said Courfeyrac, feeling genuinely dreadful on Enjolras's behalf.

Enjolras stared vaguely at the candle by Courfeyrac's bedside, his coat off and his waistcoat half-unbuttoned. "I am too. I had not meant for it to disturb anyone else."

"It disturbs you and Combeferre enough, I suppose." Courfeyrac picked at a loose thread in the coverlet. "It must be dreadful. Is there anything I can do to help?"

Enjolras focused on his waistcoat buttons, but did not seem quite interested in doing anything with them. Then, with his usual, sweeping gesture of decision, said, "It is a private matter. We shall work it out soon enough. Go back to sleep."

"Will you…?"

Enjolras smiled again and Courfeyrac felt as if someone had thrown open the windows. "Yes."

There was a knock on the bedroom door.

"Rest- I'll see who it is."

Courfeyrac did so, quite happily. He was very certain he would sleep easily for the first time in days, and paid no attention to the knock and the ensuing conversation until he heard his own name.

"—is not attempting to corrupt me, Combeferre."

Oh hell, the argument  _was_ about him. Courfeyrac debated getting up to deal with it.

"Not intentionally- nor are you  _intentionally_ trying to corrupt him. I thought you agreed it was best to stay away?"

A pause. "I know. I am here… against my better judgment."

"Enjolras, I thought better of you. I know you were unhappy to be apart from him, but the first few days of abstention are always the hardest. The desire fades with time and distance."

Very quietly: "No, it grew unbearably strong."

Combeferre sighed. "Enjolras, may I stress once again that this will bring an extraordinary amount of complication not only to your personal life, but your political one? If it becomes known that you are…."

Courfeyrac, by now feeling extremely irritated, forced himself awake and then flung a pillow at the back of Combeferre's head to get his attention. "Mind speaking up so Joly and Bossuet can know too?"

Combeferre was knocked temporarily off-balance, but managed to stay upright by doing a rather stupid little pirouette.

"Close the door at least," said Courfeyrac, crossing his arms. "Jesus, Combeferre, what the hell's gotten into you?"

"Have you forgotten the attacks on the Marquis de Custine?" Combeferre demanded, shutting the door firmly. Enjolras, now deep in contemplation, stood by the wall with one hand on the door frame, and looked at the fire. Combeferre glanced at him, to make sure he was still listening, before continuing on. "A group of soldiers beat him half to death because he arranged an assignation with one of their fellows."

"Yes, because he was being an indiscreet idiot there," said Courfeyrac. "It's not as if you are going to pummel me half to death, are you? And if I might point out, he now lives quite happily with his lovers. No one mentions it anymore, and if they do, it's damned bad manners. I mean yes, half of  _polite_ society doesn't recognize him anymore, but half of polite society wouldn't recognize me if I mentioned that I was part of a revolutionary society that is agitating for armed revolt against the government. Anything goes, as long as you're discreet."

"Courfeyrac, that is not how it works. It is impossible to be discreet—"

"Or just impossible for  _me_ to be discreet?" asked Courfeyrac, by now seriously annoyed.

"I did not say that," Combeferre replied, with aggravating patience. "I merely point out that these private affairs have a way of becoming public, and the ramifications of that are not to be lightly pushed aside."

"Combeferre," said Courfeyrac, "who has to know? It is, as you yourself have admitted, a private matter between me and Enjolras. I do have some sort of discretion. I don't often apply it, but I do have it."

Combeferre looked at Courfeyrac very steadily. "Do you really understand what you're doing, Courfeyrac?"

"I believe I do," said Courfeyrac.

"And do you realize all the repercussions you would face if something like this became public?"

"Who would be stupid enough to make it one?" asked Courfeyrac, nettled. "You brought up Custine, I'll bring up Platen. You read Heine's review of… oh what's it called. It scandalized Marius when he had to translate it recently.

"Platen's  _Die Bäder von Lucca,_ " said Combeferre.

Courfeyrac nodded. "Right- it wasn't so much a review as—"

"Yes, I know he exposed Platen's… proclivities, as it were. They are as unacceptable in Germany as they are in France. Platen, I might remind you, has taken to his sickbed."

"And Heine, if I might remind you, suffered more from it. You must have heard everything- half the Romantics in Germany won't speak to him, last I heard from Marius's articles. Only high sticklers cut Platen, and they were doing that before because he was a Romantic."

"Yes, and Platen and Custine are aristocrats," Combeferre pointed out.

"And so? Just because we're neo-Jacobins doesn't mean that everything an aristocrat does is automatically—"

"I merely point out that aristocrats may hide behind their titles and positions in society. We are students. We do not have that luxury. Moreover, we are revolutionaries."

"Yes, and that makes us, what, incapable of love? What the hell, Combeferre, it's not as if my other loves have bothered you- and it's not like I'm going to be more indiscreet about this than any other time I'm made happy by being in someone else's arms. Do you think I take my mistresses to meet my father, or go up to my aunt's friends in the National Assembly and say, 'Oh, by the way, have you met this girl I'm sleeping with? She works in a hat shop'? I may tease and allude but I have always respected their privacy. I mean most people would just ignore something like this, even if they did find out. It would be in bad taste to comment."

This has the opposite effect Courfeyrac had intended. Enjolras's expression became distant and suddenly closed off. Courfeyrac was bewildered and said, uncertainly, "Enjolras?"

Enjolras left the room.

Courfeyrac flung himself backwards onto the bed with something between a sigh and a growl of frustration. "I blame you, Combeferre."

"For telling the truth and pointing out the follies of this particular line of conduct?"

" _No_ , for trying to make a private arrangement public," said Courfeyrac, "and, further, for doing irreparable damage to Enjolras's emotional development. He was blossoming under my tutelage. He's never going to trust anyone who says they love him now."

"Courfeyrac, that may be a good thing," said Combeferre.

"How on earth can it be?" Courfeyrac demanded, scowling.

"I thought him untouched by the sexual impulse, but this… surely you can see, Courfeyrac, that this is unacceptable by any standards you would care to set."

"Not mine."

"Yours are not society's." After a moment, Combeferre said, "There are other, more personal considerations that Enjolras probably will not mention, but are of equal concern, so I—"

"Oh God," said Courfeyrac. "Are you just trying to make it worse? I know he has a list of hang-ups over this longer than his list of objections to the absolute monarchy. I believe I know most of them. Let me spare you the trouble of speech. Is he abusing our friendship? Why no, I made the offer out of a very deep and abiding affection and respect that caused me to wish for his happiness. What's more, if he takes me up on the offer, that's a good guarantee of my happiness too. Is he abusing his position as my leader? No, he is not. He hasn't forced me into anything. I am going along with this because I want to, not because he has insisted I do so for the well-being of the Republic. Is he forcing his baser passions on me? Hell no. If he was, I would be terribly, terribly glad. I can scarcely get him to kiss me. Am I afraid it's only lust? No, not at all. I mean granted, Enjolras and I are both very tactile people, but Enjolras is a creature of soaring ideals. If there wasn't something more substantial to back up whatever attraction is throwing him for a loop, then we would never have been friends."

"You forgot one very crucial point," said Combeferre, "and that has nothing to do with Enjolras's character but with yours."

"What do you mean?"

Combeferre looked Courfeyrac straight in the eyes. "The occasional instability of your own character, Courfeyrac."

"The instability of my character," repeated Courfeyrac, more puzzled than indignant. "I am sadly stable, though sometimes I wish I was not, because how can you be a good Romantic without plunging suddenly and inexorably into pits of wrist-gnawingly intense despair? I am a terribly sanguine fellow. If I'm sulky for an evening, I'm over it by morning. Besides I only ever get sulky."

"I do not refer to that aspect of your temperament," replied Combeferre. "I was referring to how that instability translates to your affections for others."

"Now really," said Courfeyrac, beginning to feel offended. "How can you say that, Combeferre? Once I like someone, you can't get me to leave them alone. Ask Marius Pontmercy for that. I could have given up on him multiple times in the past, but I never did."

"No, Courfeyrac," said Combeferre, with what, to Courfeyrac's mind, was a rather irritating patience. "I was not speaking of your friendships either."

"Are you, in fact, saying that I did not love my mistresses?" Courfeyrac crossed his arms. "Really, Combeferre, I think the world of you, but you are deliberately setting out to offend me."

"You must admit that your affections for your collection, as I have heard you call it, seem transitory at best," said Combeferre.

"I cannot and will not say that," Courfeyrac said indignantly. "I still love each and every one of them. Perhaps not in the way they would wish, but I do, platonically if nothing else. I respect them and still think fondly of them- and, what's more, remember each one. I give more of myself in the collecting than they ever gave when in my keeping and I prefer it that way. They all deserved more than what I could give them, and I give them all of myself to do with as they pleased. The memories I received in return are as dear to me heart as my father's collection of Chinese porcelain is to him." He paused and absently traced the pattern on the coverlet with a fingertip. "Are you worried, Combeferre, that I just want Enjolras to take pride of place in the display cabinet of my conquests?"

Combeferre looked at Courfeyrac quite calmly. "If you wish to phrase it like that. I am more afraid that this may prove little more than a phase for you, when, for Enjolras, it will be a life-long devotion."

Courfeyrac blinked. "A life-long devotion?"

"You must grant that I have some understanding of Enjolras's character. Courfeyrac, this is, in part, why I keep stressing the serious social ramifications of what you are doing. This is not exactly something that society smiles upon, and you will find it extremely difficult to live as you have if it ever becomes public. If I can call Enjolras's attention to the fact that this will have a very  _lasting_ impact with very serious consequences… to be honest, he is more worried about the effect this would have on you."

"He shouldn't be."

"That is precisely my point," Combeferre said dryly. "You must forgive the observation, Courfeyrac, but you are… more equipped to lessen the effects of your passion."

"Because I treat them lightly does not mean I feel them any less," Courfeyrac said reprovingly.

"Courfeyrac," Combeferre said warningly.

Courfeyrac retreated into a sulky silence.

"Thank you. You may be… fond of Enjolras now, but in a year or so? If he gives in, he will be just as infatuated. You will have moved on."

"Combeferre," Courfeyrac tried to say.

"Hear me out," said Combeferre, holding a hand up. "This is not a passing whim for Enjolras. You have not let it be. If he does this, it will quite literally change his life."

"Do you imagine it's a whim for me?"

Combeferre sighed and took off his glasses. "I cannot say Courfeyrac. Perhaps you cannot either. I would advise some deep introspection, if you are capable of it, before committing yourself. If, now, you let wiser heads rule the day, you both may be disappointed, but you will recover."

"And if it is a passion, instead of a passing fancy?"

Combeferre looked at his glasses, as if unsure whether to polish them or not. "What would you have me say, Courfeyrac? That I advise Enjolras to go against everything I thought he believes in, against every restriction he has imposed against himself to better see his ideals in practice for the sake of a few kisses?"

"You really think that poorly of me," said Courfeyrac. He felt incredibly hurt.

Combeferre studied his glasses again. "No, Courfeyrac, not at all. I merely see this as something that could ruin you both if you are not careful and you…."

"Are not always careful," said Courfeyrac.

"Precisely. You may be practiced at playing with hearts, but Enjolras's is the wild card. You cannot apply the same rules to him as you have to your actresses and grisettes."

"Why would I?" asked Courfeyrac. Then, realizing it only as he said it: "I don't particularly want that sort of relationship with Enjolras. I feel for him what Nisus felt for Erylus. I want only his happiness. Not that I didn't want the happiness of my actresses and grisettes, mind you." Courfeyrac paused and, with a colossal effort of will, managed to think before speaking. "If you are certain his happiness can be secured only if I stop, then I will."

Combeferre looked at Courfeyrac in some surprise. "Will you?"

"Only if you can definitely assert it," said Courfeyrac. "I thought he was fairly happy with me. If you are certain, though—"

"I am certain of nothing," said Combeferre, and, with one last, penetrating look at Courfeyrac, left the room.


	6. Chapter Six

The problem with Combeferre, thought Courfeyrac, moping on his bed, was that he was so often right. Courfeyrac had no idea what to say in response to Combeferre's accusations. What if it was a passing fancy? That sounded so horrible- Courfeyrac fell in love very easily, but he remained in love just as easily.

Or, at least, so he liked to think. The more probable truth was that he fell into like very easily and collected friends the way some men might collect interesting books. Courfeyrac delighted in reading the stories of someone else's life, as written into their conversation or their character and delighted in his wide collection of friends. When he tried to add someone he was attracted to, it was even better, like glancing through an author's final draft, with all the ink splatters and idiosyncrasies that made it so full of vitality, enjoying the secrets hidden from the ordinary reader, but it was ultimately a pleasure that came in the experience and not in the possession. Courfeyrac's affairs were light, playful things, which, to his mind, had the same sort of aura as Sunday afternoons in the South of France, all warmth and sunlight and flowers, with the constant promise of spring, and the church bells barely distinguishable from the mistral rushing through the lavender fields. It was refreshing, rejuvenating even.

It really wasn't supposed to be this depressing.

"Jehan's been spreading the rumor that Enjolras and Combeferre are at each other's throats," said Bossuet, the next morning, bringing in several slices of bread and butter and a cup of coffee for Courfeyrac. "There you are, I bring you gossip and breakfast. Are I not your truest friend?"

Courfeyrac stuffed a piece of bread into his mouth so that whatever he managed to say would sound like agreement.

"Jehan is overdramaticizing it, I believe."

"Mmphffff," said Courfeyrac.

"What delightful table manners."

"Nnnmmmmnng," replied Courfeyrac.

"Same to your mother," Bossuet retorted, quite cheerfully.

Courfeyrac made a rude hand gesture that left no doubt to his meaning.

"Oh, by the way, Joly said that you could try walking a bit if we didn't tell Combeferre. However, since Combeferre stalked out of here last night in approximately half as foul a mood as Enjolras- I attribute that to your good influence- I think you will be in Joly's tender care for today at least. Did you manage to talk him out of a temper?"

"I have no idea," Courfeyrac said honestly. "Was Enjolras really upset?"

Bossuet absent-mindedly helped himself to one of Courfeyrac's slices of bread. "Hard to tell with Enjolras. Combeferre was definitely in a temper last night, but he was worse a few days ago, when he and Enjolras quarreled outright. He… how to phrase it? He's all at right angles. He presses his lips together until they disappear in a straight line and sticks his chin out, he folds his arms behind his back while his posture is alarmingly upright and, though drawn up straighter than a Platonic line, he looks straight ahead in an almost painfully serious silence."

"You saw him as he left?" asked Courfeyrac, trying to disguise his nervousness as curiosity.

Bossuet nodded and, after swallowing a mouthful of croissant said, "I heard raised voices too, before Enjolras left looking like his soul had flown off somewhere and left its usual fleshy habitation empty. What happened?"

"I shoved myself into the argument when it got really awful," said Courfeyrac, with unusual care. "You see that pillow in the corner? I pegged it at Combeferre to get his attention." It was difficult to keep his tone light and easy, but he focused on reaching for his coffee cup and tried to say, in as detached a fashion as possible, "God, Enjolras was more upset than I thought. Of course, he left before Combeferre and I really talked. Combeferre seemed less upset once I'd finished than when he and Enjolras had really been laying into one another, but Combeferre left on a series of enigmatic one-liners, so who knows what the hell Combeferre's thinking."

"Something I doubtless would not be able to follow," said Bossuet. "He looked like he had been expecting the secrets of the universe to appear in front of him, and they had, only they had also ungraciously taken the form of an illogical proof with imaginary numbers."

Courfeyrac pretended to sip at his coffee nonchalantly. "Do you sleep in the main room then, since I usurped Joly and Musichetta's bed?"

"The three of us tend to cram together into my bed," said Bossuet, looking incurably smug. "It has its benefits. Musichetta is really… open-minded."

Courfeyrac started laughing, half out of genuine amusement, half out of relief that the conversation had changed. "She got her way, did she?"

"It was admittedly awkward kissing Joly the few times she prevailed upon us to do so, but her, ah, enthusiasm afterwards really makes up for it." Bossuet grinned. "I keep expecting something to go horribly wrong now."

"Joly always shares with you, and Musichetta has a deep appreciate for, ah, the… pure affection of male friendship," said Courfeyrac, now calm enough to actually drink his coffee. "I don't think Joly even thinks about it anymore. What's his is yours. You're safe."

Bossuet rapped his knuckles on the wooden side table by Courfeyrac's bed and managed to scrape his index finger.

"Or not," Courfeyrac amended.

Aside from the fact that Courfeyrac was becoming genuinely worried about Enjolras, it was a much better day than usual. He managed to persuade Joly that a bath would actually be good for his leg wound, and, afterwards, managed to hobble around the apartment with Joly's walking stick. Being able to move again lessened some of his general sulkiness. Courfeyrac hated keeping still. He had often gotten in trouble in school for his constant itch to be up and about instead of keeping to his chair and had exasperated legions of nurses and tutors with his high spirits. How much better it was to be walking again!

Well,  _limping_ as opposed to  _walking,_ if he was going to be honest, but still, he wasn't forced to flop around in bed all day and idle himself into a bad humor.

"You're  _walking_!" Jehan exclaimed delightedly, upon arriving at the apartment with Bahorel and several bullet molds Musichetta quietly hid in the back of the airing cupboard. "Oh, look at Courfeyrac, Bahorel, it's like Lazarus!"

"All I remember of that story is the delightful phrase, 'But Lord, by this time, he stinketh," said Courfeyrac, "and if you apply that to me, look upon my dampened curls and know that I bullied Joly into letting me have a bath today."

"Dandy," said Bahorel.

"And proud of it," replied Courfeyrac, taking a careful step. It was surprisingly difficult to use a walking stick for support instead of for ornamentation. "Do you think I might even walk outside, Joly?"

"Maybe in a day or two," said Joly, who had sat on the couch and pulled Musichetta onto his lap. She was being unusually quiet, but, then again, she always was whenever she saw the more radical aspects of Joly's political involvement. Joly dropped a kiss on the nape of her neck before propping his chin on her bared shoulder. "You are making great strides, Courfeyrac."

"I never noticed how many really terrible puns you make," said Courfeyrac.

"It's part of his charm," said Bossuet, perching on the edge of the table, since Bahorel had taken one of the chairs and Jehan was straddling the other (Romantics, he had once, very seriously told Courfeyrac, never sat properly in chairs). "Puns are like the bird droppings of oratory. The soul has to lighten the load before it reaches the apotheosis of rhetoric and sheds its excess verbiage in such oratorical flourishes."

"So says a man whose name is 'Laigle de Maux' or 'Eagle of Words' and has a terribly esoteric nickname about a royalist giver of funeral orations no one remembers," said Bahorel. "Jolllly, I think we could kidnap Courfeyrac and take him to the Musain this evening."

"In a dressing gown?" Joly asked skeptically. "Do you want to make poor Courfeyrac die of heart failure from the suggestion?"

"I'm not  _dying_ ," Courfeyrac insisted, though he had been horrified at the idea.

Jehan cocked his head to the side. "Can you manage the stairs, Courfeyrac? There aren't that many, and we can take a carriage to the Musain. It's not far."

"I have no pants," Courfeyrac pointed out.

"What a true Jacobin you are," said Bossuet. "You take 'sans-culottes' to its illogical conclusion."

"We can bring you some tomorrow," said Jehan.

"Ah, I mean no offense," said Courfeyrac, "but do you think you could let Joly pick out my clothes?"

"If you have any breeches that fit over your bandages," Joly said disapprovingly.

"Your trousers are just as well-tailored as mine are," Courfeyrac pointed out.

"Yes, but I have a very well-dressed mistress and I don't have a leg wound."

"He has to keep up," said Musichetta, affectionately scratching Joly's head. "By the way, Bahorel, I haven't been out of the apartment much. Can you let Rosalie know I won't be meeting her for dinner this evening, like usual?"

"We're on the outs again," said Bahorel.

"Oh, really?"

Bahorel folded his arms. "When a man lists the number of duels he has been in over the years, the correct response is—" in a ridiculously high-pitched squeak, "—oh, isn't my man a fighter!" He dropped back to a more normal register. " _Not_  to burst out laughing. It's a thoroughly emasculating experience."

"Well, that's Rosalie for you," said Musichetta. She thought a moment and said, "Actually, Courfeyrac, you do have a pair of trousers here, expertly mended, if I do say so myself, and you've lost some weight from eating little more than opium for a few weeks. They ought to fit."

"Contradicting my orders, my love?" Joly asked, in a wounded tone.

"Oh come, Jolllly, Rosalie's my Bossuet."

Bahorel pulled a face. "She's got horrible hair rats, which I have just persuaded her to do without, but I would like to think I have better taste than that."

"Gee, thanks," said Bossuet.

"You know you're hideous," Bahorel said fondly.

"And you know your mother's a whore," Bossuet replied, just as fondly.

"Courfeyrac, you have to promise you will sit down as soon as we get there and that you'll tell me as soon as start feeling tired," Joly interjected. "Alright?"

Courfeyrac was involuntarily beaming. "Oh, my word on it, Jolllly."

It was admittedly difficult and somewhat exhausting to get dressed, but he could at least dress decently. Joly had a few waistcoats Courfeyrac had given to him over the years (choosing to wear two waistcoats was a matter of medical, not just sartorial opinion, as Joly informed him), and Courfeyrac still had his frock coat and overcoat from several weeks ago. Musichetta even curled his hair for him, once she was done with hers. If he had been able to move his injured leg properly, he would have bounced out the door and down the stairs. As it was, he had to hobble and endure Jehan's attempts to come up with rhymes for 'cripple', and Bossuet's teasing about old age and infirmities. Courfeyrac bore it stoically enough, since he was going to go  _outside finally_ , but fell into an abstraction once they managed to figure out who was going in the carriage and who would be walking.

He was not entirely sure what to say to Enjolras. Half the reason he wanted to go out, even when he hadn't quite grasped how to walk with a cane, was to see Enjolras. The memory of Enjolras just closing off and leaving the room left Courfeyrac feeling as if someone had shot him again. It kept flashing into his thoughts whenever he didn't want it to.

"I  _thought_  it was too soon," said Joly, worriedly. He and Musichetta had piled into the carriage with Bahorel, on that grounds that they three were best suited to do something if Courfeyrac suddenly started bleeding on the leather upholstery.

Courfeyrac forced a smile. "It's just the cobblestones. I'll be fine once I'm actually walking over them instead of being jostled."

"You can lean on me," said Bahorel.

"Nah, I have Jolllly's prized walking stick," said Courfeyrac, "with the gold polished several times a day from being rubbed against his nose."

Joly was somewhat startled. "Do I do that?"

Musichetta laughed. "All the time, Jolllly. You rub your nose whenever you're thinking particularly hard about something."

"It's the sign of a sagacious mind, just as much as the puns," Courfeyrac said. "Ah, here we are! Musichetta where are you off to?"

Joly had clambered out of the carriage and reached up to help Musichetta down by very unnecessarily putting his hands on her waist and swinging her down. Musichetta laughed. "Oh, you're playful today. Rosalie and I are always in the front room of the Musain Wednesday evenings. She's right proper- she has her own apartment still, and Bahorel has no fixed habits, the vagrant he is—"

"One has to escape a peasant heritage tied to the land somehow," replied Bahorel, helping Courfeyrac to get to his feet.

"—so she makes a point of coming to the Musain on Wednesdays. Rent collection, she calls it."

"I do adore Rosalie," said Courfeyrac, managing to get down the steps and onto the Place Saint-Michel without too much trouble. Joly, having finished paying the driver, reappeared and the coach rolled off. "You shall have to tell her about your literary endeavors."

Musichetta colored. "It's just notes now, it's nothing serious- ah, there's Rosalie. She got us the window. Don't strain yourself Courfeyrac, it was hard enough getting the blood out of your trousers the first time."

"Do you have money?" Joly asked, catching Musichetta's hand and kissing it.

"You indulgent boy, you'll spoil me. I turned in my shirts last Friday, I have enough." She flitted off into the café, Joly smiling somewhat stupidly after her.

"You treat your mistress too well," said Bahorel.

"I'm a practicing Saint-Simonian, I'll have you know," Joly said, rubbing his nose, catching himself and rather guiltily lowering his hand. "Besides, your perception's skewed. You treat your mistress awfully."

"It amuses us both," said Bahorel. "I've no doubt she'll manage to "accidentally" show an ankle and win me back eventually, but we are both completely incapable of your sort of fidelity. We take too much pleasure in being mutually unfaithful and provoking the other to do the same. It is never a good thing to take a Latin Quarter love affair too seriously."

Courfeyrac very gingerly took a step forward, and Joly and Bahorel had the good graces not to make fun of his very slow progress. "You and Musichetta are very serious, isn't that right Jolllly?"

"Oh, yes, terribly serious," said Joly. "Never expected to be, but I'm utterly mad for her. In fact, I may be madder for her now than I was when we decided to live together in a Saint-Simonian partnership. If continued contact only worsens the infection of affection, I shall happily die of overexposure."

"You medical students," said Bahorel, shaking his head. "You're all philosophers."

"You have to be a bit of one when you're face-to-face with death at least twice a week," Joly replied. "It was, admittedly, a bit of a frightening realization. I was in bed with the nervous strain for a fortnight, but, aside from this really alarming rash on my shoulder, I have never been in better health or better spirits. There is something very healthful about being with someone who knows you intimately and manages to love you in spite of it." He gave a little wave to Musichetta as they entered the café, which was just beginning to get crowded. There were several students at the bar, complaining loudly of the cold, and several more bothering the grisettes seated at various tables around the front room. Rosalie and Musichetta very obviously pointed to Bahorel, and the other students quite suddenly decided to look elsewhere for that evening's entertainment. "Bahorel, I think it's good to take these things seriously, once you've tired of chasing every grisette that smiles at you in a dance hall. It can be mutually beneficial."

"Yes, I'm sure your father is terribly impressed with your Saint-Simonian partnership with a seamstress," replied Bahorel, glancing around the café. "Not here yet- we can go."

Courfeyrac glanced himself around to make sure there weren't any police spies, and followed the other two down the passage to the backroom.

Joly huffed indignantly. "Well, he upped my allowance as soon as I mentioned I had met a lovely girl named Musichetta who had the eyes of a fortune teller. You remember, I bought a pair of those ridiculously tight pants you recommended."

"They worked, didn't they?"

"Like a magnet on iron filings!"

"Filings, plural Joly. There's no need to settle down to a very dreary life of philosophic monogamy when you haven't reached twenty-five yet."

Joly smiled mysteriously. Or at least, it would have been mysterious if Courfeyrac had not known exactly how open-minded Musichetta was thanks to Bossuet. "The benefits of having a very serious understanding can be… surprising."

They emerged at last into the back-room, which tended to be at full capacity on Wednesday evening. Several people waved at Courfeyrac, several more shouted greetings over the continual hum of multiple conversations and Enjolras, sitting alone at a table in the corner, did not react at all.

"Hullo Enjolras," Courfeyrac said very pointedly, as Joly ushered him into a chair at the only free table and Bahorel allowed himself to be pulled aside for a game of dominoes with a few medical students.

Enjolras looked up, blinked and raised a hand to acknowledge that someone had, in fact, said something.

"Seems a bit out of it," Courfeyrac said.

Joly cocked his head to the side. "Yeees. I'll go tell him I have the bullet molds and see what's the matter." Joly managed to make his way through the backroom. Enjolras stood to greet him. There was an odd stiffness to Enjolras's movements, as if he had to force himself to do anything- and, oddly, Enjolras was acting with a bewildering amount of physical reserve. Since the backroom was usually so noisy, Enjolras tended put his hand on the shoulder of any lieutenant making their report, to draw them closer and to hear them better. Enjolras kept his hands at his sides when talking to Joly. Everyone else noticed it, Courfeyrac was sure. Enjolras was always touching them on the arm to call them to attention, clasping a hand in congratulations, discreetly tapping someone on the back of the hand to make a point.

"Enjolras seems somewhere else entirely today," said Joly, puzzled. He sat down next to Courfeyrac. "Perhaps the thunderstorm yesterday misaligned the magnetic fluid in him."

"He might just be tired," said Bossuet, walking into the backroom with Jehan, who flitted off at once to Grantaire's table.

"Enjolras? Tired?" Joly looked at Bossuet in bemusement. "That's like saying you are just in a bad mood."

"I am capable of brooding with the best Romantics," Bossuet said, with feigned indignation. He glanced up at Louison, passing through with an armload of dirty dishes. "Louison, a bottle of house red and three glasses please."

"On my tab," said Courfeyrac, since Louision was clearly about to protest Bossuet's credit, or lack thereof.

Once Louison had brought the wine and Courfeyrac had uncorked and poured it, Jehan dropped into a chair beside Bossuet, apparently too distraught to remember Romantics did not sit normally in their chairs. "Oh, it's horrible. Enjolras and Combeferre are still feuding. Grantaire's been keeping track for me, and he said that Enjolras is just really not himself today. He was almost  _clumsy_ at times. It's like he's ill. Grantaire notices these things."

"Ah, that's it then," said Joly, not entirely willing to enter into any sort of discussion on Grantaire's one, irrational obsession. "That is really odd. I mean, Bossuet said they rowed at each other last night, but a whole day passed since then. Are you sure?"

Jehan gestured apathetically at Enjolras. "Just look at him! You can tell at once."

"What can they possibly be feuding about?" asked Joly. "That's like saying Bossuet and I are feuding about something.  _Have_ we ever feuded about something?"

"I think we quarreled once or twice," said Bossuet. "But, as I recall, you get panicked and cave in like a wet sheet of paper if it goes on for too long. Enjolras is too unyielding for that. It must be over some… sort of interpretation of something. I mean, not many other student cells are actively preparing for armed revolt. Perhaps Combeferre thinks Enjolras has misread the political situation?"

Jehan shook his head. "No, I very much doubt that. That Polytechnician we visited when Courfeyrac got shot was one of Combeferre's friends."

"Combeferre did point out we ought to wait, though," said Joly. "You remember all that trouble we got in because of Bahorel's duel?"

"Yes," said Courfeyrac. "Bahorel very kindly loaned me all the details of it for my explanatory letter to my parents, though I changed his shopgirl to a young, widowed marquise whose name I could not bear to mention since she so cruelly refused to speak to me again after I nearly died defending her honor, or lack thereof."

Jehan beamed, sat straight up in his chair and slammed his open hands against the tabletop. "Oh, you're yourself again, or very nearly! Courfeyrac, surely you can do something?"

"Ah… about that," said Courfeyrac, scrutinizing his glass of wine. "I think I made it worse."

"Oh hell," said Bossuet, surprised. "What's the argument about?"

"Ah ha. At this point, it's very definitely about me. And my carelessness, as a matter of fact."

Jehan looked absolutely miserable and cast himself into Courfeyrac's arms. Or, at least, he tried to and ended up half-falling out of his chair with one arm around Courfeyrac's neck, and his face buried against Courfeyrac's shoulder. "Oh, and it's all my fault that that happened! If I'd been a more convincing girl… oh, I am no Achilles, I weep for my inequities!"

"No, no," said Courfeyrac, uncomfortably. He set aside his glass of wine and patted Jehan, today dressed alarmingly à la Werther, on the back. "Jehan, dear boy, there is no need to throw yourself off cliffs because the real world did not live up to your expectations of it, or anything of the sort. I live, though I sulk more than usual. It's not your fault. I am more to blame for injuring myself than you are. Hell, no one  _made_ me jump out a window."

"But you didn't hurt yourself jumping out the window," Jehan informed Courfeyrac's collar. "You hurt yourself distracting the policeman from shooting at  _me_ and now Enjolras and Combeferre are on the outs!"

Two of the less dedicated Amis wandered over to join their table. One of them, Drouet, a doe-eyed journalist whose air of almost childlike naivety won him more scoops than any of his less innocent-looking co-workers, said, "Courfeyrac, you didn't hear us calling for you? Rumor has it you felt the brutal chastisements of the Sûreté. Can you confirm or deny the allegations making the rounds of political backrooms?"

"I wish I could deny them, but no, I was that stupid," said Courfeyrac, lifting one shoulder in a shrug, as Jehan was crying onto the other.

Drouet looked surprised. "Really?"

"Word is it was a duel," said Courfeyrac, with something close to his usual smile. "Bossuet's been presenting that testimony to our colleagues at the law school. I can count on you to spread it to all the others, can I not?"

Drouet's smile was still a little startled. "Of course, what sort of journalist would I be otherwise? But really- I overheard what you were saying to Jehan. Mother and father are quarreling over you getting shot by a policeman?"

"It's complicated," said Courfeyrac, trying to be discreet, "and about more than just me being an idiot, but when they wander about the metaphysical plane together, they seldom leave signposts for anyone else who would like to follow. All I can say with any certainty is that I made things worse." He let out an annoyed puff of air. "God, and I was so damn grateful to Enjolras for pulling me out of the valley of death I swore I'd make him as happy as he'd made me. That failed."

Friche, the other Ami, lit a cigar. "That is an understatement that would make Moliere envious of your literary prowess. My God, I've never seen the man so out of sorts."

Courfeyrac looked up. Enjolras was ostensibly trying to read the  _Gazette des Tribunaux_ , but instead was looking blankly at the table in front of him. It was obvious this was not his usual abstraction, or one of his characteristic mental jumps from the real to the ideal. He was not present in the least, but he did not seem to be engaged in anything else. He had simply closed down.

"How could I have messed up this badly?" Courfeyrac muttered, patting Jehan on the shoulder. "I don't even know if it would help if I talked to Enjolras."

"Have a diagnosis, Joly?" asked Drouet.

Joly looked worriedly at Enjolras. "I don't know. I've never seen him like this. Courfeyrac, did he take your side at first?"

"Yes, though I went and tried to drag him too far and now I honestly have no idea what he thinks, or if he is thinking of anything at all about it. God, I'm not used to dealing with these sorts of things. It's not something you can laugh off over a glass of wine. I don't even know what he needs to laugh off." This was not entirely true. Courfeyrac had a good guess, but did not want to probe too deeply for fear of becoming absolutely miserable himself. He was already unhappy.

"Poor Courfeyrac, dealing with consequences for the first time," said Friche, unsympathetically.

"Have some pity for Enjolras at least," protested Jehan, lifting his tear-stained face.

"I wouldn't dare," said Friche. "I've never been on the receiving end of one of his glares and I don't ever plan on it. He wouldn't appreciate my pity. Moreover, he'd be offended by it." He puffed throughtfully on his cigar. "Still, it's a damn mess. I'd like to feel sorry for him, but he wouldn't allow it. Not from me, anyways, I'm only a private in this army of the Republic."

"Every private has their place," said Bossuet, and the conversation turned from Enjolras to crude jokes about male anatomy until they all felt less uneasy.

"There's Combeferre," Drouet said suddenly, digging an elbow into Courfeyrac's side. "Mother and father ought to make up now."

Friche blew a stream of smoke up at the ceiling, unaffected by the hopeful note in Droeut's voice. "Ought, yes. Will they, who knows? It's a question of semantics and sentiments."

"Don't make me haul out the Latin grammatical systems on you," chided Drouet.

Friche accidentally bit down on his cigar. "You wouldn't- at least not the Greek?"

Courfeyrac tuned out their argument, and, like Joly and Bossuet, merely watched as Combeferre exchanged a few words with Louison before pausing, looking around the backroom and going to sit with a few art students trying to puzzle out just what had been so objectionable in Hugo's  _Marion de Lorme._

"Oh hell," said Courfeyrac.

"Oh dear," said Joly. To make himself feel better, he took out his hand mirror and began examining his tongue.

Drouet broke off his argument with Friche to stare, wide-eyed at Combeferre. "I suppose it is serious after all. I am sorry to have doubted you Courfeyrac- I thought you were exaggerating."

"We all  _are_ exaggerating," said Friche, impatiently. "So Combeferre does not immediately go over and say hello to Enjolras. What of it? Perhaps he has something he wishes to say about  _Marion de Lorme_ and governmental censorship."

Jehan lifted his face from Courfeyrac's shoulder. "But he  _always_ says hello to Enjolras. He didn't even smile in Enjolras's direction. They're on the outs. I told you so. Oh, if only there were good cliffs in Paris!"

"It's not your fault," said Courfeyrac, his voice sounding oddly hollow. He cleared his throat and said, a bit more steadily. "It's mine. Christ, Jehan, I am sorry about this. It's my duty to fix it all, I suppose?"

Friche eyed Courfeyrac through the cigar smoke. "This doesn't sound like you, oh Monsieur de Coeur feerique."

"That was a really odd pun," said Bossuet.

"It wasn't even grammatically correct," pointed out Drouet.

"It is proof of why I am a private," said Friche.

"Just what were you trying to say?" asked Joly, who had been trying to puzzle it out with his tongue still stuck out of his mouth.

"Coeur feerique- fairy heart- fairies are light- light-hearted- told you, I'm not officer material. I can't make good puns." Friche shrugged.

"Are you saying I lack seriousness of purpose too?" Courfeyrac asked, in a theatrically long-suffering tone. "Does everyone think I frivol my life away, going through mistresses the way I go through hats?"

The other Amis were uncomfortably quiet.

Joly coughed. "Well, no, not entirely."

"Not entirely," repeated Courfeyrac. "Thank you, Joly. One can see just why your bedside manner has earned you the love of all your patients."

"And one can see just why your silver tongue has earned you the love of all." Joly rubbed his nose. "More seriously though, Courfeyrac, it is… easy to doubt your sincerity if one doesn't know you well. I mean, flirtation is sort of your default method of communication."

"I… well, alright, I concede the point,  _but_ —"

"But you are careless sometimes," said Friche.

"I'm sure it's deliberate, to throw anyone off of his more illegal activities," replied Drouet. "You may act the young buck around town, but that's to throw off the scent…." He caught sight of Courfeyrac's expression and hastily amended, 'Well, I always thought it was. We can pretend that's what it is. The truth is an odd thing that way. If enough people agree on something, it becomes true."

"An odd interpretation of the General Will, that," said Bossuet. "So what if you are occasionally frivolous, Courfeyrac? You never are about what matters."

"It's the carelessness I object to," said Courfeyrac.

"Just who got shot by a policeman again?" asked Friche, skeptically.

"It happened to Robespierre!"

"And just who brought in Grantaire?"

"He found us the Corinthe!"

"And has since suspended himself in a scientific blend of spirits to preserve himself that have, instead, completely failed in their purpose."

Jehan blew his nose. "Oh stop it all of you. Combeferre and Enjolras's fight is just putting all of us on the edge of a precipice, and the abyss widening before us isn't even remotely interesting. It's just got easily seen jagged rocks and monarchists who are waiting to point and laugh."

"In the abyss?" asked Friche.

Jehan ignored him. "I shall talk to Combeferre. This  _cannot_ go on. Courfeyrac, you go talk to Enjolras."

Whenever Jehan stopped frolicking around the metaphysical planes so beloved of Romanticism long enough to come up with a practical course of attack, it was best to follow his advice. Courfeyrac had never been able to determine if Jehan's odd way of approaching reality at diagonals and through dreams allowed him to arrive at workable plans much easier than someone constrained by a more normal sense of logic, but appreciated Jehan's sudden moments of what Bossuet had jokingly termed 'manly resolution'.

Courfeyrac limped over to Enjolras's table and pulled out a chair at once.

Enjolras feigned greater attention to his newspaper. "Is this wise, Courfeyrac?"

"Probably not, but I can't stand to see you so unhappy. I'm sorry."

"It is not your fault." Enjolras opened the paper and said, "It seems to me that this outpouring of Romantic rebellion might be channeled far more easily than I thought. Earlier today, Jehan informed me that the Romantics are planning on hissing Racine's  _Athalie_ off the stage of the Comédie-Française this Saturday. Might I trust you to see if the enthusiasm for the death of classical constraints on drama might easily translate into the death of the classical constraints of absolutism?"

"You know you can count on me for anything," said Courfeyrac, very gently.

The page of the  _Gazette des Tribunaux_ Enjolras was holding rattled slightly; Courfeyrac was alarmed to realize that Enjolras's hand had been trembling. Enjolras merely folded his hands together and focused on them.

Courfeyrac was not certain if he should throw caution to the wind and so said, very carefully, "I know this is not the place to speak of it, but perhaps we ought—"

"I see nothing further to say on the matter," Enjolras said abruptly.

"What I said was only half the truth," said Courfeyrac, impatiently. "Combeferre was backing me into a corner. I cannot say I can honestly answer all the questions he flung at me on your behalf, but if you have doubts, tell them to me yourself. Let me clear them because I… well, because I care for you, not because I feel some odd need to defend myself. I very honestly only want your happiness."

"Then you will go to the Comédie-Française and speak to the students and workers sitting in the Gods of restraints on actions far more serious than those that propel an actor from one side of the stage to another."

Courfeyrac stared at Enjolras's profile and drummed his fingers on the tabletop. "I… alright. I will follow your lead."

"Thank you."

"But," Courfeyrac said, leaning forward to place his hand on top of Enjolras's folded ones. "I am not going to follow Combeferre's- on this matter, at least."

Enjolras stared silently at their hands. "It would be wiser if we did."

Courfeyrac almost laughed. "And you consider me wise, Enjolras? I would prefer happiness to wisdom, if forced to make a choice." He squeezed Enjolras's hands. "Though, I cannot see it as a strict dichotomy. The wisest men are the ones who know how to be happy. I know this worries you- I will be cautious."

"I cannot promise I will be," replied Enjolras, abruptly sliding his hands out from under Courfeyrac's. "You know that it is impossible."

"For you to be cautious?" Courfeyrac asked, almost playfully.

Enjolras gave him a warning look. "You know very well what I mean."

"Yes, but I honestly find it ridiculous. Not that Combeferre doesn't know what he's talking about but." Courfeyrac made an airy gesture. "Do some of his objections really matter? I cannot see the harm in some of the…."

"Consequences," supplied Enjolras.

"Yes, negative consequences, when the chief result is happiness."

"You don't understand what the consequences are, Courfeyrac."

"Just because I treat them lightly doesn't mean I don't understand them. I laugh at them to deprive them of their power, not because I think they have no power at all. Believe me, Enjolras, I know how the game is played."

"To evade the consequences of one's actions is not to put an end to them," said Enjolras.

Courfeyrac sighed. "Oh everyone thinks I'm irresponsible now. I am only irrepressible." Since Enjolras was not smiling, Courfeyrac amended, "Alright, maybe I'm irresponsible too, but, not about things that are really important. I solemnly promise that, even if I have been a little careless in the past, that is at an end. It has been brought to my attention that I am so sadly frivolous it eclipses my seriousness of purpose. I suppose that is why everyone thinks—"

"I am not getting anything done here," said Enjolras, abruptly. "Good evening, Courfeyrac."

He stuffed the  _Gazette des Tribunaux_ under his arm, picked up his hat and left by the back staircase. Courfeyrac was left to slowly get up from the now empty table and hobble over to Joly and Bossuet.

"Enjolras sent me off to the theatre," said Courfeyrac, feigning amusement. This was much more difficult than he thought, though at least the tremble in his voice could be mistaken as laughter- Friche let out an incredulous snort and Drouet was startled into giggling.

"So he thinks  _L'Enragé_  has actual merit now, does he?" asked Bossuet, actually amused.

"Somehow I doubt that the tragic and moving story of a virtuous young woman getting bitten by her lover and then dying of rabies fits with the ideals of a Jacobin Republic of Virtue, no matter if the audience of a boulevard theatre is full of the people we work to save, or if Robespierre waxed on about the didactic value of the theatre," Courfeyrac said airily. "I shall have to give up seeing it for the tenth time to go see Racine's  _Athalie_ for the first time, this Saturday."

Joly had been examining his tongue in his hand-mirror again and stared at Courfeyrac with his jaw dropped and his tongue sticking out. "Eh?"

Drouet looked at Courfeyrac curiously. "I shall form part of your squadron, oh my captain. What is Enjolras's plan?"

"Sedition, as usual," Courfeyrac said, easing himself back into his chair. "Brothers, will you happy few join my merry band? Jehan reports that the Romantics are going to hiss Racine off the stage of the Comédie-Française. I shall station each one of you… and Jehan, Bahorel, and maybe two or three of the Amis I know from the Army Robsart that tried to keep  _Amy Robsart_ from being laughed out of the Odéon Theatre last year… throughout the Gods, I think. Take your mistresses if you can, that will keep us out of his suspicion, even if our murmurs during yet another dreary monologue are suspiciously political."

"Gathering in the new flowering of Romanticism?" asked Bousset.

"Why not harvest a political bouquet?" asked Courfeyrac. "Any flower can be set off to advantage by a tricolor ribbon."

"I don't take Musichetta out often enough," said Joly. "I shall certainly be there. Bossuet, you'll come, surely?"

"If you pay for my ticket," said Bossuet.

Drouet hid his smile behind his fingertips like a child. "Oh my. I have been looking for new material. The  _Journal des Débats_ always pays well for stories of polite scandal like this, and  _Le Constitutionnel_  has been looking for articles about the Romantics confronting the old regime since Hugo rejected Charles X's bribe to keep silent about his play getting banned."

"I shall certainly follow your orders," said Friche, stabbing out his cigar to prove his determination.

Courfeyrac forced a smile. "There we are, a serious plan of attack. Lead by me, in an unexpected twist. To the immolation of Racine and Charles X!" He lifted his glass in a toast and wondered if this was why Grantaire drank so much- to try and lift, with false spirits, the overwhelming gloom only a smile from Enjolras could penetrate.


	7. Chapter Seven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Racine's _Athalie_ was hissed off the stage of the Comédie-Française in 1829, and I have chosen to pretend that that took place in December for the sake of my timeline. It probably didn't, but, then again, a mob of Romantics didn't have a fist-fight in the Gods of the Comédie-Française afterwards either. As to the donkey and _Organt_ … there is a donkey in _Organt_. You don't want to know exactly what the donkey does. You're better off not knowing, to be honest.

By the time the Saturday evening performance of  _Athalie_ came creaking onstage, Courfeyrac had moved back to his apartment (thanking God he had given into parental pressure and gotten an apartment on the third floor of his building, as opposed to the proletarian sixth), learned to walk with a cane, and sulked himself into a more socially acceptable  _malaise du siècle._ As far as Courfeyrac could tell, his friends, neighbors and landlady all either thought that he was trying to brood himself into an apogee of Romanticism, to protect himself from the effects of the classical drama he told everyone he was going to see, or his leg wound was making him unusually grumpy. Several of the grisettes, shop-girls, waitresses and barmaids that formed the more recent part of Courfeyrac's collection floated the theory that Courfeyrac had been forbidden by his doctor to engage in usual, active appreciation of the female form until his leg had entirely healed and, much to Courfeyrac's annoyance, he would be pitied for it by at least three people whenever he went anywhere.

Jehan had somehow managed to talk Combeferre around to exchanging polite pleasantries with Enjolras. Of course, Courfeyrac went by hearsay on that one; he hadn't been back to the Café Musain since Enjolras had turned his back on him and walked out. Grantaire had played the role of messenger via a particularly drunken monologue when Courfeyrac was alternatively idling in a café and waiting for his troops to check in and receive their instructions the morning before the performance.

Courfeyrac, in no mood to deal with another's heartache on top of his own, applied himself to a volume of Keats and replied in monosyllables and trite aphorisms. Grantaire was just talking nonsense anyways, and mocking the bonds of  _fraternité_ that usually held the Amis so closely together. The ideological attack, as sloppily constructed as it was, grew beyond annoying.

"Do you believe in anything?" Courfeyrac asked abruptly, looking up from his book.

Grantaire's slurred enumeration of mythological allusions came to a shambling conclusion at Courfeyrac's almost Enjolriac tones. "I… yes."

"What then? In the Greeks you talk about?"

"In Enjolras," Grantaire said simply.

Courfeyrac smoothed down the folded corner of the page he was reading. "And your Greeks?"

Grantaire looked blearily at Courfeyrac and said, with something close to a smile, "So you wonder, do you, why the toad watches the bird and looks for some way to exist in the same universe?"

"But your affection has… found a home in the Platonic?" Courfeyrac winced. The café, Poisson's, by the Luxembourg, was filled with literary students, which had been the point in meeting there, but Courfeyrac did not feel particularly shielded by the conversations and the icy one-liners of the very pretty barmaid. It was so awkward to have to hint at everything. He began to long for freedom of speech, as rampantly an idealistic hope as it was. If only one could say something outright instead of dancing around a subject, life would be so much easier. "No, I suppose it… went to… Troy. I understand. Achilles and Patroclus were kissing cousins in more than one way. But he…."

"Apollo does not see the inhabitants of the shadows he drives out," replied Grantaire. "It does not keep us from watching him. What did you say to him? I thought he was bad before, but he is worse. I cannot stand it, Courfeyrac- he… what did you do to him?"

Courfeyrac sighed and stared sightlessly at the open book in his hands. "I deserved that. Worsened the quarrel between him and Combeferre over my carelessness, and then was flippant when trying to show that he had been right to take my side. Now he is on no side at all. He's just…."

"Gone," said Grantaire. He looked down at the tabletop, littered with coffee cups, theatre tickets and half-coded instructions Courfeyrac had scribbled down to hand out. "I had grown so used to living in the sun- it was indifferent to me, but it shined all the brighter because of it. It was indifferent- I was like everyone else. I was an equal of all others who saw and were amazed."

"God, I'm sorry," said Courfeyrac, now absolutely miserable. "I don't even know what to do to make it better. I've been avoiding the Musain to keep the argument from getting worse. Jehan said they speak to each other."

"Yes, in enigmas. Says the philosopher to the priest, 'I am certain of nothing, but I understand well enough'. Replies the priest, 'I know'. The philosopher pauses and adds, 'It is not something I advise, all the same'. The priest nods once and leaves, even more miserable than when he had come in."

"Oh Combeferre," said Courfeyrac, trying to distract himself. The poetry wasn't working. Courfeyrac kept reading the first lines without really seeing them, the verses slipping out of his mind like a handful of water that kept trickling through his fingers. "I would really love it for him to be  _wrong_ for once. On… anything." He kept himself from saying, 'on this particularly'.

"What was he talking about?"

"I have a guess, but by this time there argument's probably evolved into some sort of metaphysical tussle between the gods that we lesser mortals cannot understand." Jesus, he really was turning into Grantaire. Though Courfeyrac did like Grantaire, he found the idea of behaving like him appalling. He roused himself from his lethargy and said, "We're just depressing ourselves now. Are you in for this evening? I can set you up by some students from Delacroix's studio- I have lots of friends in the box office of the Comédie-Française, and it's astonishing what you can find out about who's going where if you have a lot of very chatty friends among the students. We're going to hiss Racine off the stage. To hell with the classical unities."

"What's the point of them?" asked Grantaire, who was now, thank God, distracted

"If the Jesuits at my boarding school are to be believed, they exist for the purpose of ' _vraisemblance_ ', or making what is false appear true. A perfect mimicry of life will get you emotional emotionally invested in the people running around onstage defeating Moorish armies in the space of three hours, which is somehow more realistic than, I don't know, starting a play in the Latin Quarter and ending it in the Marais."

"Yes, but the quick decimation of the Moorish army is in  _Le Cid_ , and  _Le Cid_ is a tragi-comedy," said Grantaire, "and is therefore already a bewildering hybrid of styles that ends up being a silly melodrama."

"Hey, I like Corneille," said Courfeyrac. "He at least tried to break ridiculous rules. I mean, hell, why should there be rules about how one ought to feel and how to express them?"

"And how to evoke them in someone else," said Grantaire. "Oh, my Greeks, my Greeks. Aristotle, if only you knew what trouble your catharsis causes."

"Why can't we have catharsis outside of literature?" Courfeyrac demanded.

"Because it does not exist outside of literature."

"You've been hitting the absinthe early today.

"It is the purpose of arranging language in various odd ways to create a person that never was but seems like they might be. We may do the same in conversation, but I never purge my spleen though it, I can only do it within the constraints of this chimera we call alternatively art and acting, from the Greek  _catharsis_ , a cleansing, equivalent to  _kathar_ , a variant of _kathaírein_  to cleanse, which, in turn, is a derivative of _katharós_ , pure." Grantaire rattled around the empty coffee cups in search of something to drink. "It's like an emotional orgasm. I ought to go to the theatre more."

"… I can't say that's why I go to the theatre," replied Courfeyrac. "If you are going to be doing that in the theatre, Grantaire, my dear fellow, please don't sit next to me."

Still, Courfeyrac, arriving at the theatre, had hopes of a sweeping success. Courfeyrac had plotted out his distribution of troops with unusual care and planning. Whenever Courfeyrac got put in charge of something on his own, he tended to improvise his plans as he went along, which, it had to be admitted, had not ended well for him the last time. He had managed to get a pillowcase half-full of cartridges to a worker's group, but he had also managed to one, defenestrate himself, two, get shot in the thigh by a police officer who may or may not still be able to recognize him, three, fall in love with one of his best friends and four, make everyone in his secret revolutionary society at worse deeply, deeply depressed and, at best, really uncomfortable.

All in all, it had been a really fabulous few weeks. Really.

Courfeyrac dressed with his usual care, an effect that was completely lost on the Romantics crowding into the Gods. Jehan himself was dressed in an awful red Incroyables coat with a Marat waistcoat, a cravat that mounted to his chin, checked trousers and a sailor's cap in leather. Courfeyrac was almost ashamed to check his top hat and overcoat at the same time as Jehan's leather monstrosity.

Jehan, however, was in excellent spirits. As soon as they had received their tickets, he threw his arms around Courfeyrac's neck and whispered, "Combeferre promised to call on Enjolras this evening, while we were out."

Though Courfeyrac was no expert in anatomy, he felt what he was very certain was his heart sinking. "Ah."

Jehan pulled back and attempted to tilt his head to the side. His collar was too stiff and too high for him to really manage it. "Something the matter, Courfeyrac?"

"They won't quarrel again, will they?"

Jehan shook him playfully. "No, you goose. Enjolras has been so utterly unlike himself because they have been quarreling and it has only been getting worse the longer it goes on; I thought, and Combeferre thought so too, that they would end up in agreement one way or another. They always do eventually, and Combeferre usually manages it so skillfully they are even better friends than when they were before they quarreled. He has so metaphor about a broken bone become stronger once it's healed."

Strike 'sinking heart', thought Courfeyrac, try 'breaking heart'. He somehow managed to smile at Jehan. "Ah, wonderful. Can you go up and tell the others to start up and that I am coming very slowly? Stairs have become a Herculean endeavor for me."

Jehan dashed off at once, hopping up the stairs for no easily discernable reason other than to shock anyone trying to use them, and Courfeyrac was left in the crowd milling around the foyer. For once in his life, Courfeyrac did not want to be around people. He limped out of the building as quickly as possible, taking a moment to made a rude hand gesture at Racine's statue by the doorway. Courfeyrac limped a little ways away from the entrance and away from the crowd and leaned against one of the marble pillars flanking the front of the building. He had to; Courfeyrac felt that if he hadn't leaned against the pillar, he would have fallen and been unable to pick himself back up.

It was extremely cold outside.

Courfeyrac was glad of it. He pressed one side of his too hot face to the marble and forced himself to breathe evenly. The cold from the marble seeped through his clothes. He was glad he had checked his hat and overcoat already. He wanted to freeze.

Really, how could something that was supposed to be so light, so easy, be so agonizingly painful? So Combeferre was right again. Combeferre was always right. He ought to have expected it. The thought didn't stick however. Courfeyrac couldn't think. His face felt like it was on fire and his chest ached and he never wanted to open his eyes again.

The bell to call everyone to their seats began to sound.

"Jesus," said Courfeyrac. He pressed the palms of his cold hands against his eyes, letting his walking stick fall to the ground with a clatter. He very certainly wasn't crying. He was cold and shivering again, that was all. No overcoat or anything- he'd just overdone it.

It was cold, the bell was ringing, and he ought to go back in.

Still, the thought of going into the theatre, of having to smile and say that it was wonderful, wasn't it, that Combeferre and Enjolras were making up, to think past the crippling haze of pain that clouded all his senses, to have to summon up the vitality to leap towards a shining ideal and inspire others to join him was agonizing. Courfeyrac tried to pull himself together and think rationally, but only odd thoughts flickered through- Enjolras's hand on his hair and the quiet admission to being fond of cats, Jehan telling him that Combeferre and Enjolras would agree eventually, the nagging certainty that Combeferre, damn him, always had to be right, Grantaire, still drunk, saying: "They speak in enigmas" and the poem Courfeyrac had been trying to read, the hymn-like cadence of Enjolras's voice when he spoke of the republic—

What poem had he been reading when Grantaire came in? Courfeyrac managed to dredge up the first few lines: "My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains / My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk."

He forced himself to open his eyes again and look up. He was standing in the shadow of the pillar, and could sort of see the moon. Courfeyrac remembered one evening in his childhood home near Aix-en-Provence, towards the end of one summer. He had been in the pond in the formal gardens when the moon came out, and its reflection on the surface of the water had been the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. It had looked lonely though, so lonely that Courfeyrac understood what 'pale with grief' meant for the first time. Courfeyrac had decided to bring it inside to share his bed so it wouldn't be lonely anymore. Courfeyrac had scooped up the reflection only to see it trickle out between his fingers again and again and again.

"You were crying for the moon," Courfeyrac told himself. "Old fellow, laugh it off. It's not that serious. It wasn't going to work. You don't think he would have gone against Combeferre's advice, do you? He was never on your level." But, without willing it, Courfeyrac remembered the feel of Enjolras's lips against his, their half-laughing conversation about Saint-Just, their painfully earnest teenaged attempts at rebellion—

"Jesus," said Courfeyrac. "How did it get this bad?"

"How did what?" asked a voice Courfeyrac recognized, but couldn't place. After a moment, Courfeyrac pegged him as one of the Romantics from his law school. Hell, he was supposed to be recruiting. That's why he was here.

"My leg," said Courfeyrac, trying to lean down and pick up his walking stick. A largish group of law students were clambering up the steps- he remembered first spotting Enjolras in a group of students going up the steps of the law school, his hair shining out from underneath his hat-his mind was still slipping in and out of irrelevant memories- they were completely irrelevant, he told himself, quite sternly- and, anyways, now Courfeyrac could not remember the names of the law students in front of him. They were people he played billiards with, however, and they all recognized him.

"Was it true you were in a duel?" one of them called, over the shouts of, 'Hey Courfeyrac!', 'Hurry up!' and 'Told you we'd be late!'

"Yes- got shot in the thigh and now I limp like Talleyrand." Courfeyrac picked up his walking stick.

One of them gave a low whistle. "I thought it was just a rumor- hear that Chagney? Courfeyrac  _did_ almost die in a duel!"

Courfeyrac quite suddenly found himself surrounded on all sides and nearly carried into the theatre and up into the Gods. The high spirits of his friends was almost painful to experience. Courfeyrac usually led the way in terms of that intoxication of the spirit he so relished and now Courfeyrac was not sure how he could summon the energy to do anything but sit in his chair and wish he was elsewhere.

"You alright?" asked someone Courfeyrac thought was maybe named Gervaise, or possibly Germaine.

Courfeyrac tried for a smile and ended up with a grimace. "In a bit of pain, is all."

The other student winced. "That's the nasty thing about thigh wounds. My uncle got one at Valmy and he can't walk when it's cold out."

"What a bright future I have," Courfeyrac said, just glumly enough to be amusing. "Actually, while we are scaling the heights, I wanted to ask you lot- what do you think our future's going to be like with all these blasted ordinances? I just got caught up on all of them this morning."

It was one of his clumsier ideological seductions, truth be told, but by the time the curtain had been drawn back, the entire group had agreed that it wasn't just the theatre that needed to shake free from old traditions. They were still debating over what form that should take when Courfeyrac told them that they should continue this discussion in the backroom of the Café Musain someday, and made his way to his own seat. He collapsed into it gratefully.

It was, admittedly, not very easy to see the stage, but Courfeyrac could see all his troops spread out and talking in low voices to their neighbors. Drouet, on the end of the front row, was industriously taking notes, but immediately got up and apologized his way through the crowd.

"Alright?" asked Drouet, a little worriedly.

"Just in a bit of pain," said Courfeyrac. "How goes the, ah, note-taking Drouet?"

"Very productively," said Drouet. "I always knew inventing my own short-hand would be worth it in the long run. Are you sure you're alright?"

"You have the kindest heart imaginable," said Courfeyrac, who was having enough trouble keeping himself calm without people calling attention to the fact that he was desperately unhappy, "I miss one dose of laudanum and you are all tender concern. No, I should have listened to Combeferre, is all." Courfeyrac feigned an overdramatic sigh, because he was afraid his voice would tremble if he kept speaking.

"Overexerted yourself?" Drouet asked sympathetically.

"Chateaubriand could not suffer more than I do at this moment."

"Chateaubriand can always suffer more than anyone," Drouet replied flippantly.

"Ah Drouet, Drouet, you call yourself a Romantic? It is a hard task, but we all must try to suffer as much as Chateaubriand."

"Drouet, I have a nude statue of a cousin of yours," slurred one of the law students Jehan, the closest lieutenant to Courfeyrac, had apparently given up trying to talk to.

"I am sure I have no idea what you are talking about," Drouet said, all surprised innocence.

"Oh," Courfeyrac said involuntarily, and then immediately shut up.

"Shocking thing to say about one's cousin," Drouet said, shaking his head. "Really, what is the world coming to?"

Courfeyrac raised his eyebrows. Drouet made a face and, cupping his hand around Courfeyrac's ear whispered, "He is right though. I am related to  _that_ Juliette. She can't keep her clothes on. We always knew that, ever since she was a girl, running wild in the forests of Brittany. My parents only accepted my turn to journalism because I pointed out that nearly everyone who can afford a plaster copy of Pradier's statues can see Juliette naked." Drouet drew back and could not quite hide his anxious look.

Courfeyrac forced himself to look amused, which is what Drouet and probably the rest of his friends had been looking for in the first place. It felt so awfully false though, as if he were trying, and failing, to act out a script that he had entirely forgotten. "Does your family really hate newspapers all that much?"

"My father told me that he was furious I kept writing for proletariat rags, as he called them," Drouet replied, looking incredibly relieved. "He would rather I sold gin to poor people and poisoned them that way. Oh Brittany. It's like the Enlightenment never happened."

"Surely you exaggerate," said Courfeyrac, taking a vague stab at the right line.

"Oh, I wish I did. Brittany depresses me so sometimes. Can you imagine, your average Breton peasant has to share their rooms with their pigs!" Then, still the picture of sorrowful innocence, Drouet added, trenchantly, "As you can imagine, it makes the pigs very dirty."

Courfeyrac cracked a smile. "Thank you, Drouet."

Drouet patted him on the hand. "I am always glad to see that my pleas for universal education for the North of France met with such pleasure. Cheer up.  _Ça ira._ "

" _Ça ira_ ," echoed Courfeyrac. "Oh, there's Mlle Mars, making her second act entrance. I'll see you at the interval." Since the audience was mostly comprised of students and other Romantics who were there to heckle the play instead of to actually watch it, no one really seemed to mind that Courfeyrac and Drouet had talked past the curtain, and that Drouet was now apologizing his way back to his seat. Courfeyrac slid down in his chair and closed his eyes.

He felt so absolutely miserable he couldn't even find words to describe it. Courfeyrac would have felt better if he could. Jehan was always talking about the power of poetry- to push out a thought, to trap an emotion on paper, or to recall a moment in the stillness of writing and pin in down with the stroke of a pen. Courfeyrac was no poet, which he would very freely admit, but if he could only just say why the thought of sitting in a theatre for another two hours was so intolerable—

He rubbed his forehead. Despite the best efforts of the people around him, Courfeyrac could still hear the play. Damn Racine to hell. Him and his perpetually gloomy characters always stuck wallowing in their own angst- how were they supposed to inspire pity? Fate grabbed them by their flaws and dragged them around the stage for two hours. No one would believe anything they said- and Courfeyrac was involuntarily reminded of the first time he heard Enjolras speak, at a café table facing the Luxembourg, with the fall sunlight lulling them all into a delicious languor that still could not win out against the almost lilting cadence of Enjolras's voice as he spoke to them of the republic, of Jacobin  _vertu_ , of the glories future they very well could build together—

Courfeyrac remembered thinking that this must have been what Orpheus sounded like, but after seeing the earnestness in Enjolras's almost distant gaze, and the half-startled smile provoked by another student calling Enjolras 'Saint-Just', wondered if Orpheus had ever been a prophet. Had Orpheus ever sung the truth? Courfeyrac had felt so  _certain_ , and that certainty seemed to hum through him. It had been as if someone had suddenly fanned a sputtering flame to life and Courfeyrac truly saw for the first time; not the half-shadowy objects that he understood more by what was  _not_  said about them than what was, but what the world had the glorious potential to be, why he had loved the glimmers of promise hidden in every muck-encrusted piece of a world he had always been taught was Fallen and broken beyond repair. For the first time, he saw the world as it had first been made; he saw what Enjolras was seeing as he looked off in the middle distance at a horizon closer than anyone could have guessed.

The sun had risen.

The world had been newly illuminated.

Courfeyrac hid his face in his hands and squeezed his eyes shut. He was very certainly not crying. The play was awful, that was all. If anyone asked, he was laughing. There was a group of bousingots nearby laughing. Though Courfeyrac generally reveled in the noise, tonight it was intolerable. Courfeyrac heard a, "Can't be me, my mistress is an understudy for the maid's part and she's on tonight—"

" _JUST KILL YOURSELF ALREADY_ ," Courfeyrac bellowed at the stage, still hiding his face in his hands.

"See?" Jehan asked delightedly. "I knew it would work itself out. Oh no, Laravinière, he's a friend of mine- a true paladin!"

"Not the greatest play, eh?" asked the student sitting in front of Courfeyrac.

"Laughed until I cried," replied Courfeyrac, theatrically wiping his eyes. "God, the Maison de Molière has turned into his tomb. It has such magical effects. Comedy turns to tragedy and tragedy to comedy."

"It's what you get of following the classical unities," the student replied, and Courfeyrac managed to maneuver the conversation from Romanticism, which give one such a thrillingly new view of the world, to the not-so-distant future that glimmered so brightly in certain strains of Romanticism.

There was that at least. There was still that- the sunrise everyone hoped for, but very few could see. Courfeyrac tried to reach for that horizon, gleaming brightly in front of him, with all the eloquence at his disposal. It was something of a borrowed vision, Courfeyrac had to admit to himself, but what Enjolras had clarified Courfeyrac tried to make real. Courfeyrac was too upset to say whether he succeeded or not—he was too busy forcing himself on towards the future he had been so certain would have Enjolras in it, welcoming him on with a smile, and, for a few weeks, a kiss—but everyone around him began to pay far more attention to him than to the stage, until Courfeyrac's voice faltered and they turned to whisper amongst themselves.

" _Mon ami_!" came a voice from the front row.

Courfeyrac glanced down. Drouet, eyes wide, motioned upwards, then to the right and then held up three fingers. Courfeyrac waited a few moments before pretending to stretch and turning to the right. Sure enough, one row up and three seats to the right of Courfeyrac, there was a shriveled looking fellow leaning forward and taking notes on the back of his program.

"Not a fellow journalist, I take it," Courfeyrac said, in Drouet's general direction.

Drouet shook his head and mimed beating up the bousingot next to him. The bousingot, catching on, mimed having his hands in shackles.

"Oh hell," said Courfeyrac.

Well that was marvelously inconvenient. Courfeyrac had thought he had taken remarkable care to make sure only students and sympathetic workers were going to be in their section. And there he'd already given a speech! Goddamn it, maybe the others were right about his carelessness. Still, he could salvage the day.

"It's a classicist!" Courfeyrac exclaimed, taking care to inflict a heavy Southern twang into his usually polished Parisian French. "In the gray cap in the fourth row!"

Jehan was sitting with a few bousingots in the fifth row, right behind the police spy and said, "A classicist? Look, there he is!"

Out of the corner of his eye, Courfeyrac saw several of the more drunken bousingots reach down and seize the spy's cap, shoulders and program. A slight figure in a bright red coat that was very obviously Jehan tore the program in two with a thunderous, "This is what I think of your hideous tragedies! Down with the classical unities!"

The Romantics roared and stamped their feet in approval.

"Down with  _Athelie_!" someone else shouted and the uppermost balcony began hissing the stage like some enormous snake ready to strike. The actors on stage faltered and the aged Mlle Mars, that great bastion of classical French theatre, put her hands on her hips and glared up at the students with all the dignity of an actress who had spent her fifty-odd years observing French classicism and was not about to change her acting style for anyone. The hissing grew louder. Several of the wealthier Romantics had tickets in the pit and took their cues very well; the hissing rose like a tidal wave. Mlle Mars remained immobile.

"Death to the  _anciens_!" bellowed someone Courfeyrac thought had to be Gautier.

That worked. Mlle Mars, extremely offended by the reference to her age, stalked offstage.

The Romantics began to roar with approval. Courfeyrac looked around sharply. There might be more police spies, or, at the very least, someone who had stupidly bought a seat in the Gods that evening who would want to physically shut up his neighbor, at which point the real police might get involved—and oh, look there, at the extreme end of the third row, someone was shoving tiny little Paulier around, and he was separated from the rest of the bousingots.

"Bahorel!"

Bahorel managed to spot Courfeyrac, who awkwardly levered himself up to a standing position. Courfeyrac gestured wildly at Paulier. Bahorel made his way over just as Laravinière, the self-proclaimed president of the bousingots, spotted the mistreatment of one of his officers and began shoving his way down to Paulier too.

Courfeyrac, who had been sitting on the end of his row, stumbled his way down towards Drouet. "It's a fistfight for now, and hopefully they'll take it outside if it's a riot."

"Freedom of expression stifled, noble youth crushed down by an unfeeling government- it will sell!" Drouet grinned in delight, but, tearing out a few pages from his notebook added, "These pages though—can someone take them out? They've got some of our friends on 'em. I don't want anyone to find it on me and I'm not the best pugilist."

"What, making the news instead of reporting on it? Tsk tsk." Courfeyrac gave a sharp whistle and Joly leaned over several of his neighbors to say, "Orders?"

"Hide this."

Courfeyrac handed Drouet's notes to Joly, who in turn, handed it to Musichetta. She did not look pleased, but she hid it down the front of her evening dress and took the hand of the very buxom blonde next to her.

"Let's head out, Rosalie."

Bahorel's mistress had been deliberately not looking at her lover, who was now at the center of what appeared to be at the center of a widening fist-fight. "Oh Lord, yes. Why can't we ever go out and be normal? Sit back, enjoy a nice evening out with friends, heckle the stage, not the audience… I swear, Bahorel always has to end the evening with a bloody nose and I tell you, I don't want to have to scrub blood out of his cravat again."

"Make him do his own laundry," said Musichetta, as they slid out. "He's asking too much from you; you ought to draw the line somewhere."

"Courfeyrac, go with them, would you?" asked Joly, shooting a worried look after Musichetta.

"I ought to stay here," Courfeyrac said, much in the manner he imagined a captain might say as he went down with his ship.

"As your doctor, I say no, because it's clear your thigh wound is paining you," said Joly, "as your fellow lieutenant, I say that you are going to be useless in a fight with your leg like that, and as your friend, I'm asking you to make sure that the person I love most in the world doesn't get caught up in a riot. I know you can make sure she gets out unharmed."

"Oh, you had to end with protecting your mistress," said Courfeyrac. "Fine." He attempted to vault over the back of the first row of seats, but instead sort of flopped over and then was more-or-less carried by the crowd towards where Musichetta and Rosalie were standing on top of their seats, waiting for the more bellicose Romantics to go join the fight or watch it in lieu of the stage.

"Well, fine reception, ain't it?" asked Rosalie. "Why, Monsieur de Courfeyrac here is even serving as our usher. I feel quite posh."

"Oh, attack a man with his particle, will you?" asked Courfeyrac. "That's not playing fair, Rosalie. Let me help you down- watch it!"

Courfeyrac managed to get Rosalie down before someone who was either incredibly stupid or incredibly un-chivalrous, or possibly both, really tried to get a riot going. Bossuet seized him and began shoving him towards the exit, though not before his flailing assailant had kicked Courfeyrac in the shoulder.

"Police spy?" asked Musichetta. "I've seen that one around the Musain before, and he certainly isn't one of you lot."

"If he's trying to make Romanticism look bad, he's doing a fair job of it," said Rosalie, dispassionately. "Oh, and there they go. At least you lot have the sense to drag these things outside." She sighed and avoided looking at Bahorel as he physically dragged Paulier's attacker down the stairs, about a fourth the audience members in the Gods following after them. The others were busy heckling the stage and/or each other.

"That's the problem with Romanticism. always breaking down the divide between art and life. Sometimes it's hard to tell what side you're on."

"All the world's a stage," muttered Musichetta, jumping down herself to spare any strain on Courfeyrac's shoulder, "and all the people merely players. God, why don't we have a Shakespeare? A sentence from him is worth more than Racine's entire  _oeuvre._ "

"What, playing a part, lovely?" asked Rosalie.

"I feel like it sometimes," Musichetta said, though she refused to elaborate until they had gotten their coats. "It's hard to keep silent when you see someone you love voluntarily throwing themselves into harm's way."

Courfeyrac helped her into her coat and said, "In his defense, Musichetta—"

"I'm not saying that he's required to give up his ideals just because I moved in with him," Musichetta said quickly, and rather defensively. Courfeyrac raised his eyebrows but said nothing. This had clearly been percolating for a long time. "That's half the reason I love him as much as I do- it's only- and yes, I know progress has to come some way, the birth of a republic always requires a revolution and all, but does he… no, never mind."

"No, I'm minding," said Rosalie, taking Musichetta by the shoulders. "Say it. You'll feel better for it."

"Does it have to be him?" Musichetta burst out. "I hate having to hide part of my life. We've been living together honestly, my sisters congratulated me as if I'd been married—I always hate having to dissimulate like this when I thought it was over. To have to constantly pretend—" She turned to look at Courfeyrac, colored and stopped herself from whatever she was going to say.

"It's not always easy to play the role to the end," Courfeyrac said, very lightly. "Particularly if you know it's to hide something you knew might not end well and which might actually be harmful, not that Joly's ideals are the problem here and I am being really awful at speaking right now, but it's…."

"Oh God," said Musichetta and, quite heedless of propriety or the fact that they were in the middle of the (deserted, as the pugilists were outside the theatre) lobby, flung her arms around Courfeyrac's neck and held him tightly. "I hadn't—my poor boy."

"It doesn't matter," lied Courfeyrac, though he buried his face in her hair anyways. "Look, Musichetta, it's not easy for anyone. What I meant to say, instead of incoherently spewing out random phrases, was that, until we actually achieve the republic we've been working towards, life is, unfortunately, a creaking old play run on nonsensical rules with everyone in a part that's not to their choosing and not of their liking. If we have to tear the stage apart to free ourselves, then that's simply what needs to be done."

"I understand it," said Musichetta, "which is not the same as saying I like it. I can see why it's necessary, but… allow a woman a little selfishness in not wanting her lover crushed under the machinery he's trying to dismantle." She squeezed him around the shoulders and added, flippantly, "We don't have quite as many options, you know. I'm unlikely to stumble across another vague Saint-Simonist with such very liberal tendencies."

Courfeyrac cracked a smile and took his own hat and overcoat. "Nope. It's very hard when you've found someone who can't be replaced." Courfeyrac realized it was true just as he said it and it took all his self-control not to fling himself on Musichetta's shoulder and pour out the whole story. Instead, he navigated them outside, out of the range of the impromptu fistfight and the soon-to-arrive gendarmes and hailed a carriage.

Musichetta pressed Courfeyrac's hand as he handed her in. "I am really sorry. I can't tell you how sorry I am. Do you want to talk?"

Courfeyrac mustered a smile. "Not now. Maybe later."

Musichetta glanced at Rosalie, who, quite oblivious to it all, got them into a debate on Coleridge's willing suspension of disbelief that lasted until they reached Musichetta's building.

"I'll stay with you tonight, lovely," said Rosalie, pressing Musichetta's hand. "You can vent a little to me; it'll make you feel better."

Musichetta glanced over her shoulder at Courfeyrac.

"Go on. I'll go home and sleep, as Joly and Combeferre would no doubt advise me to do." A little ironically, he added, "Combeferre is always right, after all. We all end up following his advice."

Courfeyrac arrived home and promptly collapsed onto bed, fully dressed and so utterly depressed it physically hurt. Courfeyrac was not sure how long he had been curled up on his bed, feeling vastly sorry for himself, when someone knocked on the door.

"Go to hell," Courfeyrac said, without any real vehemence. He rolled over and stuck his head under his pillow. Part of the reason why he liked his building was because the concierge was lazy and pulled the rope to open the door whenever he heard the bell, without bothering to go out and see who it was, but Courfeyrac very much did not want to have to keep up a part that wearied him beyond measure.

The knocking continued.

Once Courfeyrac realized that he could not, in fact, just sleep through it, he grabbed his walking stick, levered himself out of bed and called, "Yes, yes, I hear you." In no very good humor and with the full intention of telling whoever it was that he had a very charming young lady in his bed who did not appreciate the interruption, Courfeyrac slid back the bolts and cracked the door open.

His voice seemed to die in his throat.

It was Enjolras.

It almost hurt to look at him.

"Enjolras," said Courfeyrac, with a brave attempt at a smile.

Enjolras stepped forward and reached a hand out before catching himself and lowering his arm to his side. "Courfeyrac."

"What brings you here at this late hour?"

"Bossuet told me there had been an altercation," said Enjolras. He was staring intently at Courfeyrac, searching Courfeyrac's face desperately for signs of weariness or injury.

Courfeyrac pushed the door all the way open with one hand. "There was, but I was much cleverer about it this time than last time. As far as I know, the police spies didn't catch anyone and were, in fact, very soundly dealt with, no one knows I started the whole thing- the bousingots are probably quarreling over who ought to claim the glory of this latest shocker, and I saw Bahorel disperse the group fighting in front of the theatre before the police received any back-up. We have befriended quite a lot of people - Drouet took down names and notes in shorthand and Joly has the list. Musichetta stuffed it down her stays when the fight broke out." Courfeyrac smiled awkwardly and stood back to let Enjolras enter. Enjolras, as if waking up suddenly, shook himself out of his immobility and walked into the room.

"I told you I wasn't going to be irresponsible," said Courfeyrac, shutting the door and taking care to lock it. "I did get hit in the shoulder, but I'm fine."

"You were hit?" demanded Enjolras, whirling around suddenly to face Courfeyrac.

"Kicked, rather. There were several police spies. We called them classicists and pinned them down. They resisted."

Enjolras looked alarmed. "They did not see your face?"

"No, I was making sure Musichetta and Rosalie got out, and the one who took particular interest in me saw me only from behind- I told you I'm fine."

He caught Courfeyrac by the arm. "Allow me to observe that you can be shockingly cavalier about things another man would consider extremely serious. You are—"

Courfeyrac tried to shake Enjolras off and winced.

Enjolras briskly pulled Courfeyrac towards him, shoved off Courfeyrac's coat and pulled off Courfeyrac's cravat and waistcoat half to check for injuries. He nearly ripped off Courfeyrac's collar to better see the bruise forming on Courfeyrac's shoulder.

"It's already darkening."

"Bruises do that, no matter how light they are." Courfeyrac laughed, quite suddenly.

Enjolras looked up from his almost anxious examination of Courfeyrac's shoulder.

"It's nothing, laughter is the best medicine, so I amuse myself," Courfeyrac replied. "But I had- sorry, the most inappropriate- I swear, I'm calm, it's not hysteria or a concussion. I'm fine."

Enjolras had cupped Courfeyrac's cheeks in his hands, apparently to check on how dilated Courfeyac's pupils were. His expression was unreadable and his manner just as brisk and businesslike as ever, with an edge of anxiety that made Courfeyrac feel half-hopeful and half-depressed.

"I just had the impulse to ask you to kiss it better, is all. But I am fine. None of us were caught and I asked Drouet to turn the whole thing into a scathing denunciation of the repressive policies of the absolute monarchy. Jehan and his group are probably going to write sneakily subversive poems and, with any luck, there will be an influx of visitors to the backroom of the Musain. I admit, I wasn't going at full capacity, since I thought…." It would be better, less painful, if he trapped it in a sentence and flung it outside of himself. "Since I thought Combeferre had persuaded you to end things entirely. There." His voice trembled so much it cracked. Courfeyrac cleared his throat.

The stoic mask dropped away at once. Enjolras stared at him in a surprise that gave way to a searching look that caused Courfeyrac's very forced smile to dissolve. It was hard to pretend with Enjolras right in front of him; Enjolras could not be blinded by artifice. He was a creature of the light, he saw the truth wherever he looked.

Courfeyrac forged ahead, somewhat blindly. "If you have, well… I admit that it means quite a lot to me, and I'm properly blue-deviled, even though I knew it… never mind, it's your decision. There are ten students who promised me specifically to look into the Musain and each of them have their own guns. I've gone on hunting parties with some of them. Now, I don't know about the others, but I have their names and they ought to be able to afford a carbine if they don't have one already…."

Enjolras apparently found whatever he was looking for, as he kissed Courfeyrac deeply. Courfeyrac was scarcely less eager. He seized Enjolras by the waist, desperate for his touch, desperate for that odd, champagne core of happiness that fizzed and bubbled under his skin, sprouting in laughter and smiles and kisses far more intoxicating than any wine. Each touch seemed to shake him awake, to drive off the numbing apathy, the sleep of the soul that had slowly been descending upon him. Enjolras was warm in his arms- as solid as the marble pillar that had kept Courfeyrac from collapsing earlier that evening, but full of a comfort far better than cold stone. His inexpert explorations were almost heart-breakingly endearing and so very real Courfeyrac allowed Enjolras to set the pace and followed his lead until Enjolras began to relax. Courfeyrac then noticed that Enjolras was still fully dressed and immediately began to correct this sad breech in good manners.

Enjolras, a bit breathlessly said, "I had not intended—we both know—"

"That Combeferre is right, etc. but I happen to think that we have the God-given right to be happy," said Courfeyrac, loosening Enjolras's cravat and lavishing his attention on the graceful column of Enjolras's neck. "And, if the chance comes along, you cannot really expect me not to seize it, mistake or not. This is a very clear invitation to be happy and I, for one, accept it. God, I was miserable thinking you no longer loved me at all. I hadn't realized how far gone I was."

"I am sorry for it," said Enjolras, clutching at Courfeyrac's shoulders, though being careful of the bruise on Courfeyrac's left one. "I do not entirely understand myself. I know, rationally, that this is a distraction and nothing more, and one that, for all the social problems it raises, ought to be ended. I cannot bring myself to do so."

"Could it be that you are happy?" asked Courfeyrac, managing to drag his attention away from the sensitive jointure of neck and shoulder that was proving to be terribly engrossing. "I know I am."

Enjolras let out a puff of air meant to be a laugh. "I suppose I am."

"Tsk tsk, my martyr, you wish to shove your happiness aside so unnecessarily for the good of the republic?"Courfeyrac nipped at his chin. "Happiness may be incidental, but it can never be shoved to the side. We ought to have included the right to pleasure in the Declaration of the Rights of Man." He caressed Enjolras's side, liking the feel of the black broadcloth under his hand, and the heat radiating out from under it. "The Americans have something like it- the pursuit of happiness."

"One may not have it, but one may pursue it."

"What do you think I'm doing now?" Courfeyrac asked innocently, capturing Enjolras's lips in another kiss.

"You are turning this into a demonstration of political principles," said Enjolras, with some amusement.

"I thought you might enjoy it," said Courfeyrac, and the kiss he received in return was more than enough proof that he had been right. Enjolras seemed almost desperate for him, which Courfeyrac found alternately bewildering and flattering and, above all, worthy of further investigation. This investigation led to Courfeyrac's shirt nearly getting torn off and Enjolras losing his coat, cravat and any semblance of self-control he had once had. Courfeyrac somehow found himself pinned to the wall, with Enjolras pressing against him and nipping at his lower lip in a way that was making it very difficult to think. Courfeyrac wasn't entirely sure how this happened, but believed that he was forgivably distracted. It was beyond exciting to see Enjolras coming to terms with his discoveries, figuring out just how to kiss him to make Courfeyrac's breath catch in his throat, how best to let Courfeyrac keep playing with his hair while allowing Courfeyrac to kiss and nip at the sensitive skin on the side of his neck, how to non-verbally express, through only the press of their bodies or a half-stifled groan, that Courfeyrac ought to continue what he was doing, or ought to return to something else.

Only when Courfeyrac slid his hands down to the waist of Enjolras's trousers did Enjolras pull away, consoling Courfeyrac for this loss with only a few far-too-brief, very gentle kisses before releasing him entirely.

"God, Enjolras," Courfeyrac said, somewhat awed.

Enjolras shook his head as if to clear it, his golden hair, disarranged by Courfeyrac's eager explorations, almost frizzing out like a halo. "I meant to check on your shoulder."

"And you checked on my heart instead," teased Courfeyrac. "It was injured, I admit, but you ought to have noticed how it is becoming yours- gradually, it must be admitted, but inexorably."

Enjolras closed his eyes and raked his hand through his hair, an oddly Combeferre-like gesture, to put it in place again. "I have no time for this Courfeyrac. You are uninjured."

"Well now you've hurt my feelings," Courfeyrac replied, "but otherwise I'm fine." He caught Enjolras by the wrist when Enjolras raised his hand to put his hair into some semblance of order. "Enjolras, I don't consider you a mistress. What I feel for you is quite possibly the truest friendship I have ever felt for anyone. Hamlet could not have worn Horatio closer in his heart than I do you."

Enjolras looked at Courfeyrac's hand. Courfeyrac released his wrist.

Feeling incredibly wounded, he hobbled over to his desk, pushed  _Han of Iceland_ off his chair and lowered himself into it. "God, do I really give the impression that I don't care for people? That's a horribly lowering thought."

"No," said Enjolras.

"Right," Courfeyrac said glumly, stretching out his injured leg. "I take back the non-injured comment, my leg aches like my currently broken heart, I'll have you know."

"I somehow doubt that your heart is broken," said Enjolras.

"Eh, it's broken once or twice before," said Courfeyrac. "I know the feeling. It's awful. I sometimes write terrible poetry about it when I get drunk enough. Fortunately, I burn it all when I'm sober again." He slouched in his chair and tilted his head back so that he wouldn't have to look at Enjolras. The ceiling, however, was terribly uninteresting. The fire wasn't even flickering enough to make the shadows worth looking at. It really was so terribly cruel that he had been lifted up out of the abyss to be flung out of paradise again and, on top of that, that the shadows weren't even interesting enough to make staring at the ceiling worthwhile. "Look, I… sort of understand what you were trying to tell me before everything just blew up. I'll admit, I… can't give you a straight answer. I don't know if this is a lifelong passion. I'm never so happy as when I'm with you- that's all I can say with any kind of certainty-well, that and I wanted to die when I thought, earlier this evening, that you were going to side with Combeferre and end everything. My world just sort of imploded and it was damn hard to get myself back into a recruiting mood after that. I'm not used to thinking of love like this. It's not something you can plan or predict, it's an unexpected, serendipitous escape into paradise, which may be why I chase after it so often." He waved a hand. "I wish I could say yes, I'm going to stick with this for the rest of my life, but the only thing I've ever felt was going to last until I died is my republicanism."

"I understand," Enjolras said simply.

Courfeyrac tilted his head up, in time to see Enjolras, with his hands clasped behind his back, turn his head away from the fire to look Courfeyrac in the eyes. Courfeyrac thought about saying something, but realized he didn't need to. Instead he smiled at Enjolras and was almost pathetically relieved to see his smile returned, however cautiously on Enjolras's part.

"I did not think I would even contemplate passions other than my ideals," said Enjolras, after a moment. "This is as bewildering to me as it is to you."

"To be fair, it's probably more bewildering to you, my dear friend," said Courfeyrac. "I happen to look upon sex as a quasi-religious experience, after all."

This won an actual smile from Enjolras. "I concede the point." He turned back to look at the fire, his figure outlined in a red-cold glow that showed that the black wool of his severe, unfashionable trousers was beginning to fade to gray in places. After a moment he said, "I cannot see, though, where this leaves us."

"I am equally blind," said Courfeyrac, "but if you come over here and kiss me again, I think I might be able to stumble forward on the road of progress."

"If I had any sense that would be a kiss goodbye," Enjolras said wryly, turning to look at Courfeyrac again, "before we took different routes to our same destination. This is a terrible distraction from the work I must do." He paused. "I talked with Combeferre this evening. I knew, as I listened to him, that he was right on the practical consequences, but I was so deeply unhappy while trying to avoid them I had very little willpower to keep myself from coming to see you. I am backtracking. It is not…."

"My dear friend, you are simply working yourself up about it and making yourself miserable, now," said Courfeyrac. "I cannot help but feel we made a false step and ended up sliding into a trench somewhere, to continue your metaphor. It's not supposed to be this…." Courfeyrac trailed off and, for the first time in years, blushed.

Enjolras's eyebrows migrated to his hairline. "Yes?"

"Serious," said Courfeyrac, still red. "Hell. Do you mind if I swear in Provençal for a minute?"

"I have always been a proponent of the right to free speech."

Courfeyrac then exercised this inviolable right by abusing it.

Enjolras looked on almost impassively, the only hint of amusement in the slight curve of his lips. Once Courfeyrac had finished, Enjolras said, mildly, "I did not know your vocabulary revolved quite so much around donkeys."

"Saint-Just, remember?" said Courfeyrac. "I stumbled across his  _Organt_ fairly early on."

"It was an education in and of itself," Enjolras said diplomatically.

Courfeyrac's eyebrows shot up. " _You_ read  _Organt_?"

"I read anything by Saint-Just when I was sixteen. I tend to take my passions very… seriously." He was almost teasing. Courfeyrac held a hand out to him and Enjolras took it. "You understand my reservations."

"I am starting to," said Courfeyrac, squeezing his hand. "There are far more than I had thought. Did Combeferre tell you about our conversation? If not, I'll repeat it for you, but it… hell, I still don't know what to say to everything he asked me." He was almost afraid to speak and ventured a very tentative, "Will you stay the night?"

Enjolras looked down at their clasped hands, his golden hair sliding forward to mask his expression.

"Not in that way," Courfeyrac amended hastily. "Like we have done, I mean."

After a moment, Enjolras made his usual sweeping gesture. "Yes."

Courfeyrac was so happy he did not quite know what to do with himself. He ended up tugging on Enjolras's hand until Enjolras got the hint and helped him up. Courfeyrac half-expected a moment of awkwardness, but Enjolras had made a decision and was, thank God, almost at peace. He kissed Courfeyrac, quite gently, as if to make the decision final.

"You must promise to get some rest. I believe I asked too much of you." There was something Courfeyrac didn't like in Enjolras's expression.

Very lightly: "Oh hardly. You ask for what I can give, and even then you don't ask for all I want to give you. However, I think you owe me a new shirt. This one's ruined." With extreme innocence, Courfeyrac said, "You might help me get out of it."

Enjolras's lips twitched. "You really are incorrigible."

Courfeyrac feigned a long-suffering sigh. "It was worth a try. Here, you can borrow a night-shirt." Though the rest of his room was usually in a state of Romantic, slightly controlled chaos, Courfeyrac kept his clothes very neatly put away in their more-or-less proper drawers. One could not be a dandy in a wrinkled waistcoat, after all. It had suddenly become awkward to undress in front of each other, so Courfeyrac busied himself making a mess of his room until Enjolras asked, "What trash are you reading now?"

He was sitting on Courfeyrac's bed and held a leather-bound volume in his hand. "Yet another Gothic pot-boiler?"

" _Han of Iceland_ is not a Gothic pot-boiler," Courfeyrac protested indignantly, though he draped himself over Enjolras's shoulders and could not resist from planting a kiss in the golden waves of Enjolras's hair.

"It is about a red-haired dwarf that rides a polar bear and burns down Nordic villages mostly to amuse himself," said Enjolras.

"At least it's not about vampires."

"Rousseau, at the very least, wrote about vampires. Very few philosophers write about pyromaniac red-haired dwarves who drink sea-water. What's this?" Enjolras picked up another book.

"Keats," said Courfeyrac. "In translation, unfortunately, but I never bothered learning English. Jehan's was on a Shelly kick since he read  _Prometheus Unbound_ this October, and that led him to  _Adonias_ and that led him to forcing Keats on everyone."

"That cannot be comfortable for you," Enjolras said, as Courfeyrac shifted.

"What, the poems? Oh no, I'm always comfortable with you. I just need to stretch my leg out. Turn a bit?"

Enjolras did, so that Courfeyac could lay his head in Enjolras's lap, with one arm wrapped around Enjolras's waist. Enjolras absent-mindedly tangled a hand in Courfeyrac's curls.

"Will you read to me?" Courfeyrac asked, not willing to drop off to sleep entirely.

"It is your book."

"Whenever I read poetry out loud I revert to Southern inflictions," Courfeyrac replied drowsily. He was half afraid of his happiness. He wanted to be awake, to make sure that Enjolras was sitting on his bed, casting judgment on his library, but he did not want to entirely shake off his pleasant lethargy. Enjolras was comfortingly warm and Courfeyrac had a vague fear that he would wake up and discover he had dreamed the whole thing. "The Jesuits despaired of me. 'My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains my sense'…."

"It is like a sudden tour of Provence," Enjolras replied.

"Well Monsieur de l'Haut-Loire, with your regionally purest French, you read it."

He did. Courfeyrac always liked to hear Enjolras reading- when he was on one of his oratorical flights, or simply reading another's, he drew out the sounds of the words, made them somehow more brighter and brilliant than when they were set down on the page, finding the music in the syllables themselves and evoking a melody hidden to everyone else.

"Oh for a beakerful of the warm South," murmured Enjolras. Courfeyrac, half asleep, felt Enjolras shift. Enjolras's kiss was a light thing, like the brush of a butterfly's wing, but it warmed him to the soul and left him newly intoxicated.


	8. Chapter Eight

Courfeyrac did not want to wake up the next morning. He kept drifting in and out of a pleasant doze to realize he was, in fact, curled up around Enjolras, nuzzling Enjolras's neck and then drifting back to sleep in supreme contentment. It was like taking a cat-nap down South, in the spring, where, whichever way one turned, the world was infused with light and warmth. As much as Courfeyrac loved Paris, he hated the perpetually gray skies. He had loved basking in the sun, stretched out like a lazy housecat. Curling around Enjolras was nearly as good.

As Courfeyrac was thinking very disconnected thoughts about the Provençal sun and nightingales, Enjolras shifted beside him and slid out of Courfeyrac's arms. Courfeyrac blinked himself awake, and watched in sleep-addled confusion as Enjolras got up and added more coal to the fire. Enjolras was kneeling in front of the flames with the window behind him. It was somewhat disorienting to see him so lit up, with the gray light of the Parisian morning half-turning to gold when it reached Enjolras's hair, but the fire casting odd shadows over Enjolras's expression.

"Morning," Courfeyrac said lazily.

Enjolras turned and smiled at him. "Good morning Courfeyrac."

Courfeyrac pushed himself up and held a hand out to him. Enjolras looked at the door absent-mindedly, but walked over and took Courfeyrac's hand in his. He did not protest when Courfeyrac tugged on their hands so that he would sit again, and Courfeyrac could kiss him more easily.

"Certainly a good morning," Courfeyrac murmured against Enjolras's lips. He felt Enjolras's answering smile. "I am so very happy that you are here."

Enjolras ran a hand through Courfeyrac's hair, further deranging Coufeyrac's already mussed curls. "I am too."

"Are you?" asked Courfeyrac, unable to keep from smiling.

"Yes." He pressed a light kiss to Courfeyrac's forehead. "However, I ought to be going."

Courfeyrac pouted at him. "Must you really? It's a Sunday. You cannot have anything too pressing. I could take you to lunch."

"I have to meet with some sympathetic friends this afternoon," replied Enjolras. "I also need to prepare for Monday's meeting, in the light of last evening's Romantic outpouring of enthusiasm." He was still stroking Courfeyrac's hair, as he might with a purring cat, and did not show any inclination to leave.

"Well dinner, then," Courfeyrac said, tugging on Enjolras's sleeve.

"You ought to be resting in the evenings," replied Enjolras. He remained immobile, and Courfeyrac only ended up mussing his nightshirt. "I am sorry to have sent you last night—"

"I am glad to have gone," Courfyerac cut him off, pressing a kiss to Enjolras's newly bared shoulder. "I think I pulled it off rather well, compared to the last time I did something. You might as well give up on this point. I will not let you win."

Enjolras twirled a strand of Courfeyrac's hair around his index finger. "How very magnanimous of you."

"I am all generosity," Courfeyrac replied, in between kisses.

"You are." Enjolras seemed to fall into a sudden abstraction and added, "I know that- I should not take such advatan-mm."

Courfeyrac found a particularly sensitive spot on Enjolras's neck and, he thought, very successfully ended the argument of who was taking advantage of whom.

"You are making it very hard to leave," Enjolras said, once he capable of coherent speech. Much to Courfeyrac's unabashed delight, this was a considerably long time after he had raised his initial objections.

"That's the point. I would not let you leave me again at all if I had my way."

Enjolras was quiet for what couldn't have been more than a minute, but felt much longer. "Are you sure, Courfeyrac?"

Courfeyrac closed his eyes. Well, hell. That wasn't a good sign. "Doubting my sincerity now?" he asked, trying to keep his tone light and amused. He nuzzled the side of Enjolras's neck for comfort- for his or for Enjolras's, he did not quite know. It did not entirely seem to matter. "No, I swear to my sincerity and I avow that I served the ball, it's landed on your half of the tennis court and it is purely your decision whether you would like to continue the match or not."

Enjolras pressed one of Courfeyrac's shoulders, to make him draw back. "Why a tennis court?"

"Oh, you didn't get it? It was a Tennis Court Oath."

Enjolras stared at him in mild disbelief.

"Well I liked that joke."

"I am not sure I would classify that as a joke."

Courfeyrac pulled a face at him. "You know you love me."

"Yes," replied Enjolras. "All too well."

That more than made up for Enjolras's initial hesitation. Courfeyrac ran the pad of his thumb over Enjolras's cheekbone.

Enjolras leaned automatically into his touch but said, quite slowly, "I… do have to leave." He closed his eyes and, still very slowly, added, "And I do not believe you have thought this out. It is my impulse to agree, but we know that is… not an impossibility, but an improbability, given our circumstances."

"Add in a little bemoaning fate and you would make a fine tragic character," Courfeyrac said, a little nettled. "This isn't some sort of doomed combination of our character flaws, set in motion by a malevolent God. Our complete destruction wasn't set in motion, we're not helplessly watching it unroll. As improbable as it is, we do have…." He sighed, rubbed his forehead and said, "Never mind. I've made my feelings clear, I'll leave you time to sort yours out. Mind if I shave first? I don't think you actually need to."

"No," said Enjolras, looking slightly disappointed Courfeyrac had removed his hand.

Courfeyrac kissed his cheek to make up for it. "Not a hint of stubble. I ought to be jealous. You are perfectly fine the way you are."

Once they had dressed, despite all of Courfeyrac's best efforts to the contrary, someone knocked on the door.

"Oh, hallo, that's odd," said Courfeyrac, adjusting Enjolras's cravat, much to Enjolras's amused exasperation. "No, Enjolras, you are not allowed to knot it as negligently as you always do, not when I'm here to see how carelessly you dress. It's enough to send any dandy into a sulk." He raised his voice and pinned Enjolras's cravat in place. "Who is it?"

"Your aunt," same the cold, aristocratic voice on the other side of the door.

"Oh hell, which one?" muttered Courfeyrac, looking despairingly at the door.

"Your only sane aunt, that's who," the voice came, more acerbically.

"Oh, Aunt Marthe," said Courfeyrac, pulling open the door at once. A gray-haired woman in a fashionable, and therefore hideous, pelisse and bonnet stood on the landing, a maid in a black cloak scowling behind her. Aunt Marthe was a very no-nonsense baroness with a very eighteenth century mindset, in that her system of morality was not so much black and white as varying shades of pastel, in that she was the absolute monarch of all she saw and in that she really didn't care what you did as long as it was not personally inconvenient to her. She permitted only Courfeyrac familiarities, because, as she had once very philosophically said, a charming young dandy skirting societal conventions out of love for her made everyone think she was, as she claimed, only thirty-eight.

Courfeyrac took her gloved hand and bowed over it with consummate grace. "It is always a pleasure. What brings you here?"

"Sunday mornings are the only times when you might always be found at home."

"Fair enough," Courfeyrac agreed.

"Would you believe it- Therese thought it best to leave you be, as you could take care of yourself- ha, I daresay you aren't even eating properly. I quite share your mother's concerns, even if I do not share her vehemence. She was certain you were on your death bed, as, aside from one incoherent letter you sent to your father, she's only received scribbled notes taken down by your friends. I came to see the damage for myself—"

"As no one will believe it is more than speculation unless it is known you really did come to see me, even in my third floor apartment in the Latin Quarter."

Aunt Marthe languidly flipped open her fan. "You have such respect for the finest motivations of maternal sentiment and altruistic concern for your health and happiness. Did you really get into a duel over a certain marquise we shall not mention?" She raised her perfectly plucked eyebrows and eyed Courfeyrac's walking stick and his slightly uneven stance.

"It would do no good to deny it, I suppose," Courfeyrac replied, trying not to lean on his cane and wincing at once.

"None what-so-ever. But really, dear boy, you might have chosen better. She may be pretty, but she is as cold as a fish in the Antarctic. You ought to have known she wouldn't give in even if you did fight off what's-his-name. The de Rotrou boy- grasping, greedy little bourgeois that he is- he was annoying everyone, not simply a certain marquise we shall not mention. Everyone is glad he has gone off to Italy. They say he decamped for non-payment of debts, but it lines up too neatly. He ought to have waited a day or two and he ought to have known all the de Courfeyracs have a strong sense of noblesse oblige and would not have prosecuted him."

"I didn't duel the de Rotrou boy," Courfeyrac said, puzzled. "I don't believe I've even met him."

"Ah, he can be taught!" exclaimed his aunt, with a fond smile. "Someday I think you shall be a credit to us in the faubourg Sainte-Germaine- perhaps on the day when you remember not to keep respectable ladies and their maids out on the third floor landings of apartment buildings in the Latin Quarter."

"I beg your pardon," said Courfeyrac, with another bow. "Come in, auntie- I'm sorry it's just the one room and that it's untidy at that- oh, Enjolras, have you met my aunt, Madame la baronne de Beaulieu?"

Enjolras had been listening thoughtfully to the conversation, frowning a little. He shook himself out of his abstraction and replied, "No, I do not believe I have had that... honor."

Courfeyrac ushered in his aunt and her maid, a non-nonsense Parisian who had the sad tendency to want to mother Courfeyrac instead of flirt with him. The maid looking disapprovingly of the mess of clothes books and pamphlets scattered on the floor and over the furniture, clucked her tongue and set to cleaning at once, muttering wrathfully about bachelor standards of cleanliness. Aunt Marthe appeared to share these sentiments, as she politely refused the chair Courfeyrac offered her, even when he had pushed the feuillitons and  _Han of Iceland_  off the seat and onto the floor.

"This is Enjolras," Courfeyrac said, gesturing at him. Enjolras gave a very elegant bow. "He's an incredibly dear friend of mine. He's been taking care of me."

Aunt Marthe was thoroughly charmed. Most women were when confronted with Enjolras's good looks and good manners, and considering that Courfeyrac had been able to dress Enjolras that morning, Enjolras's good looks were even more obvious than usual. "It is an absolute pleasure."

"Likewise," said Enjolras, quite politely.

"Perhaps you might accompany Courfeyrac this evening?"

Courfeyrac's eyebrows shot up into his hairline. "This evening? Where am I going this evening, Madame?"

"To an informal supper-ball at my house," she replied tranquilly. "If this is how you live, you certainly cannot be eating properly."

"Not at all," the maid said, darkly, throwing a stack of old newspapers into the fire and frowning at the smears of ink left on the floor afterwards. "Don't you get the concierge or a maid-of-all-work to tidy in here?"

"Well yes, she comes in and cleans and sweeps every other day and- except for Sundays- brings up my water—"

"She ought to be fired," the maid declared, now frowning at the linens on Courfeyrac's bed. "When was the last time she changed these? Never mind, it would distress Madame."

"Most likely," agreed Courfeyrac, looking longingly at the chair himself. His leg was always stiff in the mornings "Madame la baronesse, this is really very kind of you, but—"

"You dare to contradict a lady?" asked his aunt, pointing her fan at him. "I had thought better of you, Courfeyrac. Nonsense. You are not on your death bed, and I have always hated that marquise-that-shall-not-be-mentioned since she came out into society at the same time as my Argénie and married before and married better than Argénie did. I shall—"

"Please, I beg you, auntie, I… cannot bear to see her again after all my…."

"Unrewarded suffering," Enjolras supplied, looking faintly amused. He very gently pushed the only empty chair in the room towards Courfeyrac. Courfeyrac glanced at his aunt, who waved her fan at him, and sank into the chair with a half-stifled groan.

"Yes. Aside from the obvious, I was feverish for nearly a month entire. Mother ought to be glad father got any letter from me at all."

"Even one that is comprised mostly of misspelt troubadour love poetry in Occitan," Aunt Marthe replied disparagingly.

Courfeyrac frowned. "Really? I don't remember writing that."

"That would be the one you sent two weeks after a few of your friends took dictation for you and the medical student you were staying with cheerily informed us that you were responding well to magnetic homeopathy. Did you ever see a doctor?"

"Yes," Courfeyrac equivocated, playing with his cane. "Another friend of mine works at Necker."

"Good- but you cannot have been at Necker this whole time?"

"No, I was with the medical student. I just returned home this week."

His aunt snapped her fan shut decisively. "That does explain it. Your concierge is incredibly unhelpful."

"I don't think she is aware of anything but the rent. It is the one time of the month when she pays any attention to her tenants at all."

His aunt pointed her fan at him again, in much the same way a fencer would hold their foil in an  _en garde_  position. "Courfeyrac, I do hope you realize that your relatives have been sending footmen to your rooms ever since you failed to turn up for your aunt Agathe's dinner party three weeks ago. I do believe most of them wished to know how you managed to get out of it- Agathe has such an execrable cook. Still, it is very distressing to discover such delightful gossip about one's relations second hand."

"The next time I am shot in the thigh in a duel and lain feverish upon my sickbed I shall be sure to send you a note," Courfeyrac replied.

"It is such a very little thing to ask."

"Yes, it was certainly discourteous of me; I cannot imagine how I will ever make amends."

"By coming to my supper-ball this evening, of course," said Aunt Marthe. "And by specifically not dancing."

Courferyac blinked and looked at Enjolras, to make sure he had heard correctly. Enjolras, on the other hand, was rescuing several political pamphlets from being tossed into the fire like the satiric pornography Courfeyrac had collected over the years and was not paying attention.

Aunt Marthe misinterpreted the look. "Monsieur Enjolras is welcome as well, of course- were you not listening, Courfeyrac?"

"I was attending, auntie, it's only that--"

"Such discretion," his aunt said, pleased. "Yes I realize what you are trying to say, but he would be very welcome indeed. Your second, surely, is not bound by the same scruples as you are. Besides, your charming young friend deserves some recompense for all the trouble I am sure you put him through." Aunt Marthe tapped Courfeyrac lightly on the shoulder with her fan, and since Enjolras was, as usual perfectly indifferent to any compliments paid towards him, and busy with the practical matters of organizing Courfeyrac's papers, Aunt Marthe leaned forward. "The name Enjolras is certainly an unusual one. His family…?"

"His family comes from the Haut-de-Loire. Enjolras is a law student." That was more or less the extent of Courfeyrac's knowledge of Enjolras's family, but still, Enjolras did not know much more about Courfeyrac's, aside from several aunts Courfeyrac liked to complain about, and a few very insufferable cousins. With Enjolras, it was always the person that mattered, not their background. One's family might make an interesting context, like the frame of a painting, but for Enjolras it was always the person themselves, the brushstrokes of a person's character and their actions, that captured the attention.

"I understand your concerns, if he is bourgeois," said his aunt. "There is no guarantee he will know how to comport himself, but he does not push himself forward and he is such a pretty... behaved young man I cannot see any real danger in bringing him along."

Courfeyrac had to take a moment to puzzle out his aunt's convoluted reasoning. Had she really thought this his objection to Enjolras's coming was Enjolras's background? Good God, what difference did something like that make? Courfeyrac still had enough tact to lead into his main objections. "Ah, no, auntie, Enjolras did not serve as my second. Besides—"

"Yes, of course he did not," his aunt replied, catching herself and misinterpreting Courfeyrac's attempts not to show his displeasure. "That was extraordinarily clumsy of me. And of course neither of you can state anything outright, but I am sure that if certain questions were asked, Monsieur Enjolras would very decently refute all but the most believable." His aunt had used the word 'vraisemblable', which momentarily disconcerted Courfeyrac. His mind was still full of the theatre, and 'vraisemblable' to him meant the odd, strictly regulated and regimented form of life that the classical theatre was meant to reproduce. It was a term he had had to memorize at school and write essays about, it was one of those things he had learned in order to better understand the world, even though his understanding had led only to a sort of disgruntled exasperation and the unshakable certainty that the world ought to be different.

Aunt Marthe raised her voice, to try and catch Enjolras's attention. "Besides, if you cannot dance, I shall have half-a-dozen very disappointed girls on my hands. Monsieur Enjolras can surely make up the set for you."

Enjolras? Dance? Courfeyrac somewhat vaguely recalled having to write an essay about how many angels could dance on the head of a pin when he had been punished for something or other by the Jesuits at his boarding school; as far as he could recall, his very vitriolic answer had been that angels could not possibly dance, it was a silly question to ask and one would be cloven in two by a flaming sword if one dared to ask Saint-Michael if he fancied a waltz. As a consequence Courfeyrac had to perform a couple in front of the altar during Mass that Sunday. He had the vague suspicion that Enjolras's pained look was something akin to the face Courfeyrac had made when lying face-down with his arms spread out like a cross in front of the altar for an hour. "I do not think…."

"You rarely do," his aunt sighed. "Well, I shall see you at eight. I'll send one of the carriages for you."

"How dramatically you set the scene, auntie," said Courfeyrac.

"I rarely have such an exciting piece to produce!"

Courfeyrac somewhat belated realized he needed to bow, so he got up and did so. It was clumsy since he had gotten up a little too quickly and his body quite suddenly and viciously reminded him that his thigh wound had not entirely healed yet, but he got through the forms well enough. His aunt seemed to take a certain pleasure in seeing the physical toll of good manners and, without ever actually saying anything explicit, informed him that if he did not show up, he would quite possibly be hunted down by two very burly footmen.

Enjolras, who had salvaged most, if not all of the political pamphleture, bowed without agreeing to anything and shut the door after Aunt Marthe and her maid.

Courfeyrac collapsed into his chair again. "Oooooooh God, I am so sorry Enjolras."

Enjolras seemed almost amused. "Your aunt is so very fond of you. It was heart-warming."

"My aunts tend to eat their young unless they can provide material for a really good gossip," said Courfeyrac. "Aunt Therese is the only decent one. Aunt Marthe at least, has a pretence at sanity. She never sees things as they actually are, but as we present them to be- Aunt Marthe, in her own no-nonsense sort of fashion, presents the world with a palatable truth. Someday I hope I'll ease her into truth itself."

Enjolras walked over and pressed a light kiss to his hair. "Shall you want me with you this evening?"

There was something odd about hope- it sprung on you so suddenly, drove out all the shadows and gloom in the corners of one's mind and blinded one to all other paths but the one desired. Courfeyrac tilted his head back to smile at Enjolras and stroke his cheek. He was full of witty nothings that no one would remember except as some pleasantly awful joke or other, but instead of saying anything, found himself kissing Enjolras very chastely. "I shall probably always want you- but poor Enjolras, it'll be anathema to you."

Enjolras smiled. "Most likely."

"And you are still willing- God Enjolras, I don't think I could ever deserve your friendship. And," he added, when Enjolras looked about to speak, "if you are going to bring up the whole asking to much of me thing again I may have to punch you. I am clearly asking far too much of you by asking you to come and I am still doing it anyway. It'll be hell getting through an evening like that when I don't have any escape from some of the worse bits- I'm not sure I'll like it very much without getting to dance."

Instead of replying immediately, Enjolras smoothed Courfeyrac's hair off of his forehead. Then, with his usual sweeping gesture of decision, he said, "I shall arrive at eight."

"Seven," Courfeyrac corrected him. "I don't trust you to tie your cravat properly."

Enjolras kissed him gently on the forehead. "Alright."

He did leave after that, on Ami business, so Courfeyrac got himself lunch and then carefully tested his leg out by walking the few blocks from his apartment to Joly's. It held up well enough. Courfeyrac had to take the stairs very slowly, but he got up them and pushed open the unlocked door with a only sort-of smug feeling of triumph.

Bossuet had caught Joly up into his arms, which did not seem to affect Joly very much at all. Joly was, in fact, reading a book. Musichetta, sitting at the desk, with her back to the doorway, sighed. "No, I'm not seeing how they get out of it. It was a good idea, Rosalie, but I don't think it was worth sacrificing your card game."

"At least you can describe what the passionate embrace looked like," said Rosalie, lounging on the divan and looking regretfully at the abandoned piles of cards on the table near her.

"I would just like to take this opportunity to say that I cannot believe Joly is reading about miasma theory, while we are locked in a passionate embrace," complained Bossuet.

"No, it's about how to remove gallstones," replied Joly, not looking up from his book.

Bossuet snorted. "I am so glad that you find gallstones more interesting than our homoerotic tension."

"I am so glad that you have at last discovered how absorbing gallstones can be," Joly replied dryly.

"Joly, I can scarcely say that Olivier was busy reading a medical tract while swept up in passion's embrace," Musichetta exclaimed, very vexed.

"Am I disturbing the process of creative genius here?" asked Courfeyrac, limping into the room and shutting the door after him.

Rosalie grinned. "Hallo lovie. You could take Bossuet's place, he's getting disgruntled."

"I must postpone the pleasure. Musichetta, have you got the lists still?"

Musichetta was furiously crossing out a paragraph on the paper in front of her. "Mm? They are...." She laid down her quill and sorted through the papers littering the surface of the desk. "Here- wait, you're coming to get them, so that means- oh Courfeyrac, it's not...?" Musichetta let out a delighted squeal and flung her arms around his neck, forgetting about the list entirely.

In response, Courfeyrac swept Musichetta into his arms and tilted her back in a highly dramatic kiss that had Rosalie and Bossuet laughing and Joly wailing, "Oh, but you promised!"

Musichetta beamed at him once Courfeyrac had set her back on her feet. "So there was a change for the better?"

"It's not certain, but at least it's not entirely a lost cause."

"Courfeyrac!" protested Joly, disentangling himself from Bossuet, "that was over the line."

"He may be a better kisser, but I'm not leaving you," Musichetta said, causing Joly to visibly wilt. She laughed and put her arms around him. "There, there. He's a better kisser than I am too. You kiss him and then we can both revel in our mediocrity together." She kissed his ear. "Besides, you look like how I've described Olivier. Did I tell you Courfeyrac? I stitch books together sometimes- I showed some of my scribblings to one of the publishers I work for and he told me that he's looking for a knock-off of  _Olivier ou le secret_. The duchess who's been writing it for years read a bit of it aloud in a salon recently- my publisher heard the gist of it and decided the secret wasn't impotence like he's originally thought and he asked me to see what I could do with a forbidden love story between two men. Something a bit like the pamphlets I've stitched up from time to time, only a bit classier and with the constraints of aristocratic manners and rules of self-governance playing a part instead of just... you know, being an excuse for more specialized bits of pornography."

"Congratulations!" exclaimed Courfeyrac.

"See, you don't have to kiss her to tell her so," Joly said, looking extraordinarily relieved.

Musichetta laughed. "You're ridiculous, Joly. If you haven't figured out by now I love you, however am I going to convince you?"

Joly kissed Musichetta quite soundly and said, "You don't need to convince me at all. I just worry. I can't help it. I at least hope I worry in a suitably entertaining way."

"Yes, and I love you for it, but really, I promised to have the first chapter in a legible draft form by Tuesday and I'm stuck on the bit where Olivier's Greek tutor gets a little too invested in recreating the lives of the ancients and introduces him to the love that so inspired David and Jonathan. If you are going to read up on gallstones, go take Bossuet to a café or stay on the other side of the room."

With what appeared to be a great effort, Joly said, "Alright- and Courfeyrac, I know you read novels- and very trashy ones at that."

"I adore them," Courfeyrac replied, with relish. "If you need a hand Musichetta, I would be delighted to help- particularly if I can sit down while doing so. I walked here and then up the stairs and-"

"Why are you still standing?" Joly cried, rushing to get a chair. "Bossuet, Rosalie, help me- oh don't look at me like that Courfeyrac, if you pull the muscle ought of your own stupidity, I won't be quite so liberal with the laudanum. You would deserve every bit of the pain and suffering you inflicted on yourself."

Courfeyrac listened shamefacedly to the scold and allowed himself to be pushed into a chair by the desk, with his injured leg up on an ottoman and a blanket thrown over his lap.

Bossuet and Rosalie, showing remarkable concern for Courfeyrac's well-being, returned to a previously abandoned game of cards and were busy seeing who could more loudly express their indignation over Rosalie's last discard. Joly plunked down in an armchair by the fire and was once more lost in his medical text.

Musichetta shifted some papers over. "I'd be delighted if you looked over what I've got- oh, and here's the list. Take it before I forget."

Courfeyrac tucked the list in his waistcoat pocket and, speaking very softly into her ear, filled her in one the previous night's events, from Jehan's news to his aunt's unexpected social call. Musichetta listened with utter delight, hiding her smile behind her ink-stained fingers. "Oh, Courfeyrac, you darling, I'm so glad this is all working out for you."

"I hope it is," Courfeyrac said honestly. "I have no idea where it's going- it's terribly exciting, but now I'm always half afraid that he'll withdraw inward again and just...." He waved a hand. "I mean, honestly, the bit about the Declaration of Independence was the most impassioned I've seen him since the falling out. I thoroughly enjoyed it."

Musichetta picked up her quill and brushed the feathered end along her lower lip. "Courfeyrac, it seems to me that you... well, I think your path is clear."

"Is it?"

"Politics seem to rouse his passions him, from what you've told me," Musichetta replied, with remarkable innocence. "Perhaps you ought to continue down that route together? I see nothing objectionable in a close political partnership bound together by mutual respect and an equal love of each other and the ideal. It probably gets lonely on the path of progress."

"…you are clearly much cleverer than anyone else here."

"Why thank you."

"I'll be the first in line to buy your Olivier spin-off."

"Flattery, flattery." Musichetta smiled, though and brandished her quill at him. "If you really want to help me, though, you'll tell me about how the upper half lives- I've a friend who's head parlormaid in the Faubourg Saint-Germaine, but I don't know how they feel and...." She paused and looked at Courfeyrac very curiously. "It occurs to me, Courfeyrac, that though I haven't met very many sprigs of the nobility and all, you're the only one I know who's actually concerned about being noble." At Courfeyrac's puzzled look- after all, he was fairly sure that Musichetta had heard last night when he had waxed Jacobin in the middle of the Gods at the Comedie-Francaise- she amended, "I mean- it's not the... particle or the title that matters to you, it's the code of behavior. Suzanne, she's the parlormaid, helps dress the young lady of the house, and the mistress of the household is always lecturing her daughter on how to behave and it's not like any code Suzanne or I have ever heard of."

"No, it's a lot of empty formalities to keep everyone comfortable- everyone who knows them that is," Courfeyrac said. "Otherwise it's just there to disconcert the upstarts and the like- I'd like to say I never understood it, but it's been drilled into me."

"And you don't like understanding something that revolts your spirit," replied Musichetta. "You seem to have gotten your moral code right out of a medieval epic about Sir Gawaine or someone. It's terribly Romantic of you and manages to strike the right balance between charming, endearing and exasperating."

"How very kind of you!"

"I thought it was literary."

"It was at that." Courfeyrac grinned at her and they both lapsed into silence. After a moment, he said, "I don't- how did you know you wanted to move in with Joly?"

Musichetta twirled the quill in her fingers. "When I realized I spent the better part of my days and nights with him anyways."

"... I wasn't really looking for practicality, but alright."

"See? You're incurably Romantic."

"The question remains unanswered, I'll have you know."

"Because you were asking the wrong question!" Musichetta put the quill down and looked thoughtfully at Courfeyrac. "What you are trying to ask is when did I know I was in love with him, which... I don't think I could tell you. It wasn't some sudden revelation when the clouds parted or anything, I just found myself saying, 'I love you' in his arms one night and thought, 'oh yes, I am'." She shrugged. "I've always been sadly practical, though. It was like realizing I needed to buy a new pair of boots at the Temple. The awareness had been coming on for ages, so it didn't come as a surprise when it took form."

Courfeyrac, not really knowing what he was doing, picked up a bit of paper off the table, fiddled with it, and tied it into a knot. "And how did you.... know it was... I don't know."

"I have no idea what you mean, sorry." Musichetta propped her chin in her ink-stained hand and frowned at her ink-pot, to help her think. "Or- do you mean, how did I know it was going to last? God, I have no idea. I suppose it's just an assumption on my part. Like... I've forgotten who, but it was probably Plato saying about never really stepping in the same river twice. We can't always live with that consciousness of change, we have to assume things are stable to get on with life." She rubbed her face, leaving a smear of ink across the bridge of her nose and her cheek. "That was so incredibly unhelpful. It also sounds terribly depressing. It' not really, it's just realizing that the change has happened and you can't go back to how you used to be. I ought to have started out with something I read in one of Joly's philosophy books, anyways. We're always approaching the ideal, aren't we? Or getting close to a certainty. Then, once you reach one certainty, you are conscious of the change that's just been coming on for ages."

Courfeyrac leaned back in his chair; his thigh was getting stiff again. "It's just growing aware is it?"

"It comes on its own time," Musichetta said placidly.

"No, I'm aware alright. I'm far gone, I just don't... really know if it will last. And that's the main argument against me." He shook his head. "As soon as you stumble through the wood to one signpost, you find yourself floundering around looking for another."

Musichetta could give him no answer, which Courfeyrac didn't blame her for. He could scarcely come up with a way to phrase the question. He passed a very agreeable afternoon helping Musichetta with her novel, and even had time to stop by the Musain to give Drouet the list. Drouet, busy writing a headline, scarcely looked up but absently asked Courfeyrac to gauge the aristocratic opinion about romantic theatre pieces, as a quote from 'a certain M. the Marquis de ---' or something of the sort would up the circulation of the paper by at least ten percent.

Courfeyrac spent the rest of the evening painstakingly dressing in his evening clothes and reading bits of Keats. He couldn't read the poems now without hearing Enjolras's voice, which, it had to be admitted, were a mark in their favor. Enjolras arrived shortly after seven- in evening clothes at least, but ones he had slapped on in a rush. Courfeyrac only had to sigh to get Enjolras to take off his coat and start looking for the clothes-brush.

"One of your suspenders got twisted- you'd better let me have your waistcoat too and... I don't know what you did to your gloves- which aren't even properly yellow, by the way- and cravat, but you'd better take some of mine. I suppose your meeting ran over?"

"Yes." Enjolras had been meeting with a group of extremely frustrated Polytechnicians, and he had taken evident pleasure in their discussion. He reported most of it to Courfeyrac as Courfeyrac pressed Enjolras's clothes and neatly dressed him again. Of course, discussing Polytechnicians led to the one former Polytechnician in their group- Enjolras paused after he and Courfeyrac had thoroughly dissected the debate and added, "Also, Combeferre was not at home. I waited for him longer than I intended to."

Courfeyrac concentrated on correctly knotting Enjolras's cravat. "Did you tell him you were going to drop in on him today?"

"No." Enjolras watched Courfeyrac's progress with slightly detrached amusement and said, "What are you doing?"

"Tying your cravat properly. Hush, this takes a good deal of concentration." Courfeyrac managed a perfect trone d'amour, a knot as difficult to tie as it was exquisite to behold, and carefully pinned it in place. "Alright, now we can talk."

There was a knock on the door and the maid-of-all-work very timorously squeaked out that there was a carriage out front for Monsieur de Courfeyrac.

"Never mind, we shan't talk for several hours," Courfeyrac said glumly.

"Is it as bad as all that?"

"Worse." He pressed Enjolras's hand. "After everything that's happened this the past month, I'm not sure I could get through it without knowing you're there."

Enjolras smiled at him and Courfeyrac took his dose of laudanum and resigned himself to several hour's unstinting misery.

It was not actually as bad as all that; the dinner was passable, all the guests were very discreet and, though a witticism that would have been rejected as not nearly clever enough at a café evening in the Latin Quarter got passed around the company like an antique snuffbox one was called upon to admire, the conversation was at least pleasantly banal. No one started a blood feud or gave someone the cut direct, at any rate. Courfeyrac attempted to shield Enjolras from as much of it as he could as it became very quickly apparent that Enjolras was disgusted with the unthinking, amoral excesses that permeated most aristocratic circles and was ill-inclined to join in gossipy speculation about people in the room with him. To that end, Courfeyrac forced himself to be as charming as he could possibly be and, considering how charming Courfeyrac was without trying, he became an instant favorite.

Still, he was relieved when the dancing started up and he found himself chatting with one viscountess, the rest of the group having moved off. He turned to talk to Enjolras, but a countess had discovered that Enjolras lit up and forgot his reserve at once when talking about politics and had pulled him over to speak with some deputies.

"Monsieur de Courfeyrac, you always such a breath of fresh air," the viscountess said drolly, when it became apparent that Courfeyrac's attention was elsewhere.

"Say rather, one though a golden host of daffodils," begged Courfeyrac, pressing his clasped, yellow-gloved hands to his heart. "The Romantic zeitgeist needs a proper setting."

"No one who knows you could fail to attribute that to you," she replied. "A Romantic, why certainly. Take care you do not, like M Hugo, go so far in your attempts to change our perceptions through poetry you get your plays banned."

"I, alas, have no talent with a pen."

"Is it all in your tongue then?" she asked, with the particular smile that meant she, at least, knew the popular gossip and believed a version that was highly flattering to Courfeyrac, though not to anyone else involved. Courfeyrac almost wished he could feel disgusted by it, by her evident pleasure in the cruelty of something that was more believable than the actual truth, but Courfeyrac was suddenly and very deeply sad for her.

It must have shown in his expression because the viscountess gave him a particularly searching look and lout of a sharp crack of laughter. "Oh I did not- did you actually love her, de Courfeyrac?"

Courfeyrac did not entirely know how to react to this- his instilled good manners made him smile and murmur something unintelligible before offering to fetch the viscountess a glass of wine- but he only thought, 'A ballroom is no place for this.'

He was not entirely sure what he meant by 'this', but, while he was limping through the crowd, trying not to set his cane down on the hem of anyone's gown, he thought, 'Truth, isn't it? Why would anyone ever say anything true in a ballroom? It's the same reason no one says anything true on the stage. It's bad manners. It doesn't follow the rules and just makes everyone uncomfortable.' Courfeyrac was, generally speaking, all for comfort. As much as he adored Jacobin theory and as passionately as he wanted to rearrange the world so that everyone had what they needed or, even better, what they wanted, he had been raised to cherish a certain standard of living, to follow a path that made it easier to cultivate idleness than any real talents. It had been the same with his siblings, but they had learned their lessons well, and had even enjoyed them. Courfeyrac's vivacity had always bewildered his parents, though Courfeyrac's native charm had made his mother forgive him for such a perplexing flaw, and his tutors had always complained that though he clearly understood his lessons, he could not apply them correctly.

'Well,' thought Courfeyrac, ladeling out a glass of punch and feeling irrationally annoyed that he had to lean his cane against the table and nearly stick the knob of it into a side-dish, 'shall we apply our lessons, Monsieur de Courfeyrac? Richelieu, that controlling bastard that he was, decided that it wasn't enough to control the political life of France, he had to control its social and its intellectual one as well and... yes I know I am generalizing awfully, shut up mental Combeferre. The rule of  _biensenance_ , of just sweeping all the unpalatable bits of life under the rug so as not to shock the spectators, it's just as much a rule of high society as it is of the theatre. No duels onstage, Monsieur de Courfeyrac, it's all hearsay, and the more interesting for having happened only in a few lines of dialogue and nowhere else. It's all a matter of keeping what is easiest to believe to the dialogue and hiding the truth in the wings.'

He managed to hide his annoyance by the time he returned to the viscountess; a few somewhat drifting, disconnected thoughts later, Courfeyrac was no longer annoyed, but quite sorry for anyone who thought Racine was an adequate representation of real life. An unchanging character defined by their chief flaw, a merciless God leading them to their doom- what a thoroughly depressing outlook. He was inclined to be kind once again, because he naturally was and because it saddened him to think the viscountess neither knew nor believed that people were naturally good. Courfeyrac believed it so whole-heartedly he thought of it as a fact; he knew Enjolras shared his opinion, but was not sure if he shared the same unthinking conviction. Enjolras seemed to be on the viscountess's mind too however, as Enjolras was standing a few feet away from her, listening intently to a cluster of deputies and asking several very searching questions which discomfited the deputies a great deal.

"There is something I like very much about your friend," said the vicountess, eyeing Enjolras as a child might eye a pastry. "He has such a classical look about him- so severe in his looks, almost austere, but quite all the more attractive because of it. He could look just quite as enchanting in a toga or a doublet, provided it was plain enough to let the eye be drawn to the gifts of nature as opposed to the gifts of a tailor, and you would not think him out of place giving Shakesperean orations on metaphysics."

"You think him an actor?" Courfeyrac asked, a little surprised.

The viscountess pouted at him. "You dislike my metaphor."

"If you mean to say that Enjolras would do justice to any sort of costume, I cannot help but admire your aesthetic discernment, but as to acting… Enjolras has never been and can never be anything but himself." Courfeyrac could not help himself from smiling. He turned to see Enjolras glancing at them; he caught Enjolras's eye and was pleasantly surprised to see Enjolras smile at him in return.

Courfeyrac bowed to the viscountess. "If you will excuse me?"

"Oh, must I?"

"My dear viscountess,I know I cannot be excused at all for leaving you like this, but Monsieur Enjolras seems to be discomfiting a deputy by asking him about his political opinions."

"How very singular of Monsieur Enjolras." The vicoutness cast a more calculating look at Enjolras and said, "I suppose he is angling for a political career- these silly bourgeois law students, they scarcely know how to go about it. He ought to be taken in hand before he accidentally ruins his chances."

"Politics are his passion," said Courfeyrac, unwilling to discuss the matter further and feeling distinctly saddened by the viscountess's scarcely hidden look of avarice. She was probably already planning her seduction, Enjolras's launching into the political world- Courfeyrac wished he could explain the purity of Enjolras's intentions, the desire for action, for change for a physical role in dismantling a broken society and building a new one, but knew it to be a lost cause even before a vague reference to Rousseau. It was not quite disillusioning. Courfeyrac merely felt very sorry for the vicountess, and very annoyed that Enjolras had been so misinterpreted, and so fell back on good manners- half to hide his feelings, and half out of habit. "I leave my heart behind, but duty calls me onward." He bowed and dutifully kissed the vicountess's gloved hand before going over to Enjolras.

As he walked though the ballroom, his sadness seemed to melt away; he could not keep from smiling. It was a private, almost glowing sort of contentment. Whenever he so much as thought of Enjolras he felt as if some light, deep within him had suddenly flickered to life. There was so much about life that became beautiful in its golden glow- Courfeyrac was used to being a little in love with everything at once, but he had never felt quite so willing to love and nurse and care for the world until all its wrongs were healed. Courfeyrac tended to like things because they were slightly imperfect. He collected friends based on their quirks, and found a person's flaws to be one of the most intriguing parts of their personality. But now Courfeyrac felt almost as if he was seeing double, in a curiously poetic way which either meant he oughtn't to have mixed laudanum and champagne or all his debates and discussions with Jehan had somehow influenced him more than he had thought. For instance, there was Enjolras, who did not know how to dress and sometimes forgot how to talk about anything other than politics, and then there was Enjolras, whose smile illuminated an entire room and who was always willing to give everyone a chance to be as good as he believed them to be. There was the Enjolras who Courfeyrac loved because he could be so endearingly inept at social situations and therefore hid behind his natural reserve, and then there was the Enjolras who Courfeyrac loved because his idealism glowed through so brightly it was impossible not to see the world as wonderfully as he believed it could be. It was easy to reconcile the two, as it was easy to see the cover and the pages of a book and still call it a book, but it still left Courfeyrac feeling bemusingly philosophic. It was as if he alone had understood the book everyone else had been gossiping about in salons. There was a pleasure in the accomplishment and a pity for everyone else who had not managed something which, though it seemed foreboding enough, provided such insight and such joy Courfeyrac wished everyone had understood it as well as he had.

"You seem happy," Enjolras said, smiling, once the deputies, with some relief, had run off to find their partners for the next dance set.

"I am," replied Courfeyrac, with an answering grin. "I cannot entirely blame the champagne. Your smile is certainly as intoxicating. I can't help but smile back. I suppose I could try not to- smile back, that is- but I would pull all sorts of faces in the process. It would upset everyone and my aunt would think I was having a seizure. It would be a sad break in character. We cannot have that."

"Certainly not." Enjolras paused and looked into the depths of his untouched glass of champagne. "You play your part frighteningly well."

Courfeyrac shrugged. "When one is raised with a system of very arbitrary rules in mind—well, to be honest, when I was very young, I often forgot to follow them because they made no sense to me, so my tutors drilled it into me. As soon as someone drops a social cue, I find myself following along with the appropriate response, whether I mean to or not." He flashed a smile at Enjolras. "Actually, it bewildered me once I got out boarding school. My favorite tutor had tried to make sense of society by saying that propriety was the outward manifestation of inner morality and I very much believed him. I still try to, but it's…."

"Difficult," Enjolras replied diplomatically.

Courfeyrac grinned ruefully at him. "How are you doing?"

Enjolras looked immeasurably weary. "It is so false."

Courfeyrac risked clasping his hand. "It is."

"I still cannot understand how you live with it."

"I try not to. I only come to parties where I know there will be dancing. Then I have the great good fortune of getting to bounce around repeating the same bit of nothing to everyone and somehow being considered a considerate, charming wit. They actually like my puns here."

"More proof of bad taste, I am afraid to say," Enjolras replied dryly.

"You make worse puns. You just don't acknowledge them." Courfeyrac took Enjolras's glass of champagne. "But no, you are right. It is all falsity and glitter. It makes me quite sad sometimes, since nearly everyone here was raised to think that this is all there is- that all this is true and that there isn't anything better. Any light is reflected off old diamonds, or glass everyone pretends to believe is diamond though they all gossip about it behind the wearer's back. Sometimes I think they would be shocked if they saw the sunrise. It would be too bright for them. They'd think it's in bad taste." Courfeyrac sipped thoughtfully at his champagne and, said, almost at random, "I think that's why I liked you so much when I first met you."

Enjolras looked at him curiously.

"Because," said Courfeyrac, "you were so real. You didn't reflect false light from inherited, out-of-date ornaments. You not only saw the truth, you knew it, and that knowledge illuminated you. It still does."

Enjolras checked what appeared to be a move to kiss him.

Courfeyrac hid his grin behind his champagne glass. The golden liquid winked at him.

"You are very dangerous to my composure," said Enjolras.

"I am flattered to hear it. Now, will you dance the a cotillion with—"

"No."

"It's the only way to get out of the evening still sane."

Enjolras let out a puff of air. "What, by constraining my movements to some arbitrary set of rules that make very little sense?"

"You make dancing sound so silly."

"It is." He waved at the dance floor. "I cannot really see the point of it. It is an empty formality, like most everything else here. It is a method to stave off boredom, and a sign—"

"You sound like a Protestant," Courfeyrac chided him.

Enjolras frowned. "I will by no means curtail any pleasure of yours, but please do not ask me to share it."

"Fine then...." Courfeyrac looked around the room. "We're going to sneak out." While everyone else was milling around to form the set, Courfeyrac mimed smoking a cigar at his aunt, who pointed at the terrace with her fan. Coufeyrac accepted his banishment quite cheerfully and dragged Enjolras out into the gardens.

It was still very cold out, and the candlelight from the ballroom caused the light frost on the ground to shimmer. Courfeyrac threaded his fingers through Enjolras's and led him further out, until they were hidden by a row of evergreen bushes and the moon and the stars served as their only light.

"This is much better," said Courfeyrac.

Enjolras smiled.

Courfeyrac leaned over and kissed his cheek. "Oh, listen, you can still hear the orchestra." He put one arm around Enjolras's waist and lifted their clasped hands to shoulder level.

"You are not trying to waltz with me," Enjolras said, extremely unamused.

"Not trying, am," Courfeyrac replied, with all due cheekiness. "It's the only socially acceptable form of closeness an unmarried couple may have."

"An unmarried man and woman," Enjolras pointed out.

"Well, technically yes," Courfeyrac agreed. "I'm actually amazed at what we can get away with under the guise of Romantic friendship. I don't think anyone would so much as blink if I threw myself at your feet and declared that I would follow you to the ends of the earth."

"Desensitized by novels?" asked Enjolras, firmly resisting Courfeyrac's tugs on their clasped hands.

"Perhaps, or just aware of the popularity of passionate friendships. Even the high sticklers tried to have them back in the day- Marie Antoinette and the Duchesse de Polingnac had one and all, so everyone else scrambled to follow suit."

"Courefeyrac, that still will not convince me to waltz with you."

"It's expressing one's affection within the constraints of social mores," Courfeyrac replied loftily.

Enjolras sighed.

'I win,' thought Courfeyrac.

Instead of dancing with him, Enjolras kissed him.

Courfeyrac could not say that he minded in the least.

"Stop your nonsense; I'll go dance with someone."

Courfeyrac dropped Enjolras's right hand and wrapped his arm around Enjolras's waist instead. "Thank you. However, we do have the rest of this set, and w have wandered far away from any other smokers...."

Enjolras smiled. "You are incorrigible."

Still, they arrived back in the ballroom out-of-breath, Courfeyrac looking far too innocent and Enjolras looking somewhat distracted. He asked someone to dance at random and escorted his delighted partner to the dance floor, leaving Courfeyrac to limp over to the side of the room and cheerily greet his aunt again.

"You cannot have spent an entire set smoking," Aunt Marthe said disapprovingly.

"No, I was also teaching him to dance," Courfeyrac said, unable to keep from smiling at Enjolras.

"Ah, these nouveau-riche families," she replied, shaking her head and setting her chandelier earrings swaying. "They do not understand how to properly educate their children."

"He educated himself well enough," said Courfeyrac, watching Enjolras glide quite smoothly, but quite boredly, around the dance floor with a marquise unable to tear her eyes away from him.

"With your help no doubt," replied his aunt, tapping Courfeyrac lightly on the arm with her fan. "You have such an open heart Courfeyrac. I do wonder where you get it from- your mother was always too sweet for her own good, but even at sixteen she was not quite as ready to embrace everyone as you are."

"It's not really inherited," replied Courfeyrac.

His aunt was not even paying attention. "Perhaps on your father's side… no, no, very _comme il faut_ , all the de Courfeyracs. I suppose you must have a native charm, but where you could have gotten it…."

Courfeyrac smiled pleasantly and tuned her out, as he often did when his aunt started to ramblingly justify her very flimsy opinions. It was very easy to pick out Enjolras from all the other dancers; Enjolras's hair glowed in the candlelight. Despite his innate grace, he still looked slightly awkward as he moved, as if he wasn't quite sure why he was being forced to take the lead in a form someone else had invented and which Enjolras did not appreciate.

"--your mother did read a good deal of Rousseau before she had you."

"That could be it," Courfyerac agreed. "I have read a lot of Rousseau myself, auntie."

"Just as long as it doesn't turn your head," she said.

Courfeyrac smiled. "Aw, auntie, don't you know I'm a Jacobin already?"

Aunt Marthe snorted. "And I wonder where you get that wit of yours?"

"What, you don't believe me?"

"Not in the least, you wretched boy. If you want to trick me, make it a little more believable." She hit him lightly on the shoulder with her fan and Courfeyrac moved onto pleasant banalities until Enjolras came back.

"It was... not as much of an...." Enjolras trailed off and looked at Courfeyrac. "How long has your leg been paining you?"

"It's not," Courfeyrac tried to protest.

Enjolras took him by the elbow and steered him over to one of the vacant, gilt chairs by the wall. "I should have realized before- was it hurting when we walked outside?"

"No, after," Corufeyrac said, giving up. "It was coming in from the cold more than going out into it."

Enjolras frowned.

"Do not blame yourself, I am much better at hiding things than I let on," Courfeyrac informed him grandiloquently. He lowered himself into the chair very gratefully and leaned his cane against the wall.

"You have  _address,_  according to my dance partner."

"And discretion?" Courfeyrac teased.

Enjolras sat down next to him. "Surprisingly, yes. I believe the phrase was, 'Oh, so you I suppose you are the particular friend of… what is he calling himself now? Courfeyrac? He may enjoy being provoking, but otherwise you would do well to follow his example.'"

Courfeyrac raised his eyebrows. "Really now? Who was your partner?"

Enjolras looked at him oddly. "Courfeyrac, have you…?"

"Um," Courfeyrac said awkwardly.

Enjolras sighed.

"It's not like that," Courfeyrac hastened to explain.

"I believe it is exactly like that." Enjolras looked away from him, at the dance floor. The candlelight gilded his profile.

"I scarcely ever come to these things, it isn't as if—"

"You have no need to justify your past actions," Enjolras said, rather coolly.

Courfeyrac wilted. "Enjolras, it didn't mean anything when it happened and it doesn't mean anything now."

"I am aware of that."

"But it's different- you're not—" Courfeyrac folded his arms across his chest, tucking his yellow-gloved hands under his arms. "That? All that- it's worse than Racine, it's a stage full of players who meet arbitrarily, go through the forms enforced by the court and their families, and perform the same actions over and over and over again. There is no innovation, it's considered impolite. To be aristocratic is to be false and to be bored- elegantly, of course, so elegantly that no one is entirely sure what you think, or if you are thinking at all."

"There is that much constraint?"

"Constraint to the point of strangulation; one is taught to seem and never to be. There's no real feeling behind anything anyone does, at least, as far as I've experienced it." After a moment's silent brooding, and some glaring at the shadows ghosting across the floor in front of him, he added, "I am, however, blinded by my own prejudices. My mother loves people, but hates society. She never leaves Provence. Of course, she is devoted to Rousseau, so there's that, too. Despite the best attempts of my tutors, I was ruined from the start. Nature over nurture, and all. I spend my evenings here trying to drag people out from behind their fans and auras of carefully cultivated boredom. There's only stultification if you don't add in the proper dose of Romantic chaos." Since Enjolras was still silent and tired, Courfeyrac added, "I seem to have inherited my mother's distaste for falsity."

"That is no very great flaw," Enjolras said quietly.

"I can hide it well enough," Courfeyrac said, with a slightly twisted smile.

"No, you merely apply it with the verve, kindness and generosity I have always associated with you," Enjolras replied. "You have the remarkable ability to see past whatever forms everyone here has been taught, and to which they cling blindly, and to—however energetically and with a great deal of wit, applied or misapplied—draw out their hearts. There is a great resilience to the purity of the soul; no matter how it can be tarnished, it may always be clean again. Everything comes from the light and everything returns to it. One can hide a light, one can dim it, one can attempt to extinguish it but, it can never entirely be smothered by the darkness. Even at night there is never a total absence of light; the sun will rise."

"If Combeferre were here, he would call you on your science."

Enjolras smiled, quite as bright as any sunrise. "Shall we say, instead, that the earth will move?"

"And if it doesn't, we shall make it," Courfeyrac replied, feeling as if he were falling in love all over again. He grinned at Enjolras. "Shall I make our excuses to my aunt?"

"Please."

Courfeyrac did so, with a great deal of high-spirited flattery that made his aunt playfully swat him on the shoulder with her fan. "You have far too much charm, Courfyerac."

"But I apply it so very well," Courfeyrac said, with a grin.

"I cannot argue with you there. You may bring your friend with you again; he seems to be as unconsciously charming as you are, just ill-at-ease, as of yet, in society. I daresay he shall learn the forms soon enough."

Courfeyrac smiled and bowed, in lieu of any other response, and lead Enjolras out to the cloakroom. Once the servants had shown them the door, Enjolras glanced down and held his hand out towards Courfeyrac. There was no one else to see them, once the footman had closed the door. Courfeyrac took it and interleaved their fingers. "Shall we?"

Enjolras tugged gently on his hand in response and they walked off together, hands pressed so tightly together Courfeyrac could feel the warmth of Enjolras's palm through their gloves. "It is very late," Enjolras remarked, as they unsuccessfully hunted for a fiacre. "I live closer, in the 6th- perhaps you would like…?"

"Very much."

After a pause, Enjolras added, "Not—"

"I know, as we have been." He grinned at Enjolras. "I was talking with Musichetta and Joly today- everything's in a constant state of change anyways. It'll progress in its own time until we reach some sort of certainty."

Enjolras smiled and squeezed his hand. "I suppose we are always approaching it, as one always approaches the horizon."

"Yes, but we'll make the sun rise over it ourselves, won't we?" He kissed Enjolras's temple.

Nothing more needed to be said; they walked forward, perfectly in step.


	9. Chapter Nine

The next day Courfeyrac was in such an excellent mood he even went to his Roman law class. He took notes for about a half-hour too, until he remembered the volume of Keats he had slipped in along with his other schoolbooks and skimmed through it when the lecture got too dull or too technical. With the greatest resolutions of Jacobin virtue, he even went up to the professor after class and related a vague and brief version of his supposed duel- which, as it turned out, the professor had already heard about.

"The news traveled faster than the bullet through my thigh," said Courfeyrac. "Not that the bullet traveled particularly far, now that I think of it. It, ah, got stuck in the muscle."

The professor blinked owlishly at Courfeyrac before taking off his green-tinted glasses and polishing them with a handkerchief. Courfeyrac had always liked his Roman law professor, whose spectacles and fastidious sense of style reminded Courfeyrac very slightly of etchings of Robespierre. "I- I see. Monsieur de Courfeyrac, you, ah… you must understand that when one is a professor, one is privy to the choicest of student gossip—or, ah, or the gossip related in the five minutes before class. High society acts in much the same fashion. My wife's sister married the grandson of the former baron de Beaulieu."

Courfeyrac winced. "Ah, I beg your apologies, sir, you must have gotten two wildly divergent tales."

"Yes, rather, though both of them were suitably Romantic. I don't quite understand what the world is on about these days with Romanticism. It has very little to do with the Romans, does it not? And I hear such tales- my wife's sister was at the Comedie-Francaise on Saturday and the audience not only  _talked_  throughout the performance, they hissed  _Athelie_ off the stage! My goodness, this is an odd age. When I was a student myself, everyone focused on the stage at the Comedie-Francaise, we understood that Racine had more valuable things to say than we ever would. One merely sat and listened to the wisdom of the ancients, and appreciated it in silence." He absent-mindedly continued to polish a lens of his glasses while Courfeyrac squirmed in combined impatience and wounded Romantic feeling. "Though of course, when I was a student and we had those sorts of protests, the ones who got caught disturbing the peace were shipped off to the Eastern front."

"Sir, with all due respect, perhaps public opinion has shifted," Courfeyrac said. "Perhaps the French people have had enough of censorship and the limitations of personal passion—"

"And you have made passion your field of study, if not the law," said the professor, with a mild smile. "Ah, youth!" He held up his glasses to the sunlight, to see if they were clean. "What precisely did happen, Monsieur de Courfeyrac?"

"Oh sir," said Courfeyrac, with a woe-be-gone expression, "didn't you know I was taken as a dangerous insurgent and shot by a police officer?"

The professor blinked at him very rapidly, and then let out a high-pitched wheezing sound that was either laughter or an asthma attack. It was fortunately the former and once the professor had calmed down and put his glasses back on, he asked to be remembered to the Countess de Beaulieu and advised Courfeyrac to just start his classes over either the next semester or the next term.

Courfeyrac was extremely happy to be given an excuse not to go to class that even Combeferre could not object to (after all, he had initially missed a month's worth of classes after he had been shot in the thigh in defense of the republic), and went down the street to the Musain in extremely high spirits.

After flirting with Louison until he made the waitress stick out her lower lip at him, Courfeyrac kissed the waitress and asked for a cup of coffee. He then quite blithely ignored her when she lowered her voice and asked if the rumors were true and he was really forbidden from having sex for risk of his leg gysering blood.

"Always a pleasure, my dear," he said, kissing her hand with inimitable grace. "I shall pine away in your absence, so make all haste to return, so that I might have the good fortune to gaze upon you once again." Then, dropping the eighteenth century gallant act, he grinned cheekily at her and added, "I'll even keep Grantaire from pulling you into his lap like last time."

This task accomplished (though, to punish him for his lack of good gossip, the waitress never brought Courfyerac his coffee), he limped into the backroom, where several Amis were already waiting. Joly and Bahorel were dutifully and cheerfully playing the usual game of dominos to mask any political conversation. Bossuet and Jehan were looking on, while a group of students Courfeyrac only vaguely knew were clustered in the back, reading newspapers under the map of the French Republic. Combeferre was at the table next to the door, reading what appeared to be Drouet's article.

"Oh, front page," said Courfeyrac. "I am feeling terrifically pleased with myself. I had the very devil of a time that evening, but I'm glad to see it came off so well."

"Courfeyrac!"

"Combeferre!"

Combeferre set down the newspaper and smiled suddenly. "I thought- never mind what I thought. The riot was well-reported. Bahorel's written an eye-witness account about police brutality against poor, innocent young students in a brilliantly subtle defense of Romanticism. Or, at least, it will be once it's been edited. You are in good spirits- and you are walking much more easily?"

"That and I'm more used to my cane," said Courfeyrac, showing it off a little proudly. "It's a sword cane. I never thought I'd get a chance to use it."

"Are you… well, Courfeyrac?" Combeferre asked, a little stiltedly. He ran a hand through his hair to keep it in place and forged ahead. "It would grieve me to hear that you are…."

"I am doing as well as can be expected," Courfeyrac replied lightly.

Combeferre looked away. "I take no pleasure in your suffering."

"You would be an odd sort of doctor if you did." He clapped Combeferre on the shoulder. "No, I question your proscription, which I think will do more harm than good, but I do not question your judgment. You have always acted as you think best and, for whatever reason, you usually end up being right. Usually."

Combeferre looked at Courfeyrac with mingled sympathy and relief. "If my treatment hurts now, recall that it is a preventative measure, and will stave off much greater pain in the future."

"Will it?" asked Courfeyrac, with blithe disinterest.

After a moment, Combeferre replied, slowly, "If you must be flippant—"

"A word of medical advice, for all that it is gleaned from amateur observation: if you continue to apply pressure to this particular wound, you end with a result that will not entirely please you," Courfeyrac said, patting him on the shoulder again and releasing him. "So! Jehan, my brave, I never thanked you for springing to my rescue—"

"Or you to mine!" Jehan exclaimed, bounding across the room and flinging himself into Courfeyrac's arms. "Oh, you were brilliant- 'Just kill yourself already!' Oh, and the _classicist!_ It was  _perfect_."

Courfeyrac laughed and squeezed Jehan tightly. "I am glad you approve of my verve—"

"Your well-timed audacity, rather!" Jehan cried, pulling back slightly to beam up at Courfeyrac. "And- oh, I should not have flung myself at you, I know your leg is paining you and it is my fault you got shot—"

"Not at all," Courfeyrac replied firmly. "I knew the risks when I began. The only surprising thing about the whole business is that, careless as I am, I did not go through all my various torments earlier. The worst part of it is that I can't make my suffering really as Romantic as I feel it ought to be. It is, in essence, an affliction of our century against a very specific passion it detests, and which grows the stronger for the opposition, but my noble suffering just turns stupid when I lose my walking stick and my leg gives out, or when I remember the horrible  _scars_ on my thigh haven't the good grace to be discreet, there's a patchy almost circular thing and this hulking jagged  _line_ , it's awful."

Joly looked up from his game and grinned. "Come come, Courferyac, that's Musichetta's finest handiwork, I won't have you saying anything against it!"

"I second the motion," said Bossuet, lighting a cigar. "If only to save you from hearing what Musichetta will have to say about it, Courfeyrac."

Courfeyrac gave a long-suffering sigh and hobbled over to Joly's table. "No, no, I won't say a word against the girl. Musichetta is in a class of her own." He levered himself into a chair, set his books in front of him and began vaguely flipping through one. Courfeyrac was not entirely sure what he was looking for in a set of Roman law textbooks that would be at all relevant, but he was sure there would be at least something entertaining. "I'm not one for inflicting societal shackles on anyone, Jolllly, but you're mad if you ever let her get away."

Joly studied the dominoes before him and carefully put one down. "Courfeyrac, you make her sound like some sort of wild animal. We have a very civilized understanding and besides, marriage licenses are terribly expensive- and who knows? One day my magnetic fluid might get out of joint and I'll behave like a perfect brute to her.  _Then_ she'd need five hundred francs for the well-deserved separation—"

"She turned him down," Bahorel said confidingly.

"Shut up!"

"She did," said Bossuet, not unkindly.

Bahorel put down his domino almost at random. "Anyway Joly, you were drunk and she made several very good points, according to Rosalie. Is she really the girl you want to introduce to your family as your wife? I mean, show her to your father, don't say anything, allow him to draw his own conclusions and up your allowance, but your mother wouldn't be pleased."

"It doesn't matter if I love her," Joly muttered resentfully.

"It always matters to mothers what society thinks," replied Bahorel. "That is the lot of mothers and- damn it Joly!"

Joly set down his final domino rather pettishly and then, to show his great disinterest in his victory, began examining his tongue in his hand mirror.

"It oughtn't to, but it does," said Courfeyrac, "so what we're left with is a palatable truth. Who knows if it's better to have the whole truth, or just something that won't make people uncomfortable?"

"You often have to lead people to the truth if it's a particularly shocking one," said Joly, once he was satisfied his tongue was still firmly attached to the rest of him. "I mean, we had a lecture on it today. You can't just waltz out of an invalid's room after a surgery and very chipperly announce that the breadwinner of the family no longer has any legs."

"One has to put it in context," Combeferre called, sliding a sheet of paper to Jehan. "Here, look over my changes. They are still sadly prosaic."

"I can fix that," Jehan said, quite contentedly. "But I don't see why there's anything wrong with the truth being shocking. It should be. It should startle you and open your eyes to the falseness that surrounds us."

"But if it's unpleasant or… anyway outside of the ordinary, people are likely to reject it as soon as it's presented," Courfeyrac pointed out.

"No one is saying that the truth must be forever hidden from view," added Combeferre, "just that it must be gradually revealed. I would prefer a slow and measured march down the path of progress, but as long as we are on that road I have no complaint.

"Why are we still  _talking_?" demanded Bahorel, thumping the table, either for emphasis or for the pleasure of thumping things.

"Well, what else are we going to do?" asked Bossuet, attempting to blow smoke rings. "We still don't know if the police wish to ask us to winter in Toulouse for our theatrical exhibitions. All we can do for the moment is talk."

"And print," said Combeferre, crossing out several sentences. "Bahorel, please remember that you are writing in French, in future, not in some proto-human dialect that has no recognizable grammatical system."

"You should be grateful I wrote anything at all," Bahorel rumbled. "I even looked up the unities of classical theatre. Be proud of me, Combeferre."

Bossuet groaned. "Oh Jesus, you didn't."

"What?" asked Bahorel, brow furrowed.

"It's Jehan's Poland this week," said Joly, with a shudder. "He was over to dinner yesterday and—"

"The classical unities, pah! A bunch of old, dead Acadmians got together and somehow decided that  _only by following some rules_ could a play be believable- and how can they claim that?" Jehan looked around at them eagerly. "How  _can_ they- can anyone answer? No, because it makes no sense. Everything must happen in one day, in one place, in one plot with nothing violent or quotidian or  _interesting_ ever shown. They call such hinting, such avoidance of direct truth  _biensenance,_ the idiots. If anything at all interesting happens, it is only talked about in the most elevated terms, to bore the most elevated audiences. It is their simplified version of reality, it is their arbitrary system of rules and _that alone_ that appears to be true. But then, ah but  _then_ came the truths that cannot be believed. Who would ever think it true that the oldest and most powerful monarchy in Europe could crumble?"

"Are you saying that the French Revolution killed the unities of classical theatre?" asked Combeferre, mildly.

Jehan shook his head, his long hair flying around his face. "No, I merely suggest that the  _vrai_ and the  _vraisemblable_ are no longer compatible. The truth cannot be believed and what we see onstage we cannot relate to the truth. The boundary between them is in a constant state of flux. Could anyone have believed that the Bastille could fall? No, not then. Can anyone think  _Athalie_ relates to real life? No, not now. The world has  _changed_ , the earth has moved- we have spun it out of its circumscribed orbit—" Jehan jumped on top of the table, though why he decided to do so was still something of a mystery. Combeferre shifted Bahorel's letter out of the way and serenely continued working, as he was no doubt accustomed to seeing his friends jump up on tables and start declaiming against the government at the slightest provocation. "We are not  _beholden_ to the old laws, they are gone, washed away in the deluge! Down with  _biensenace_ , down with any constraints on the expression of our passions- this is our world now, we have built it anew and we shall tear down anything that obscures our truth!"

He began pretending to lunge and parry with his quill pen.

Enjolras walked in then and did not seem at all phased by the fact that Jehan had decided to fight phantoms on top of a table. "Good evening Jehan."

"Good evening, Enjolras!"

Enjolras seemed to be in an extremely good mood, which had everyone smiling in return. Courfeyrac had been grinning as soon as he heard Enjolras's measured step in the hallway and was ridiculously delighted when Enjolras turned and suddenly smiled.

"Evening," said Courfeyrac, feeling quite proud that he was still flipping through lawbooks and had not given it up for a game of dominos. "You will never guess what Jehan is doing."

"I do not believe so," Enjolras agreed. "Jehan, would you care to enlighten me?"

"I am dueling Racine!" he declared, his voice cracking down to a baritone, quite suddenly. Jehan was the youngest of them, save Marius; Courfeyrac had almost forgotten.

"I believe you have every chance of success, considering the state of your opponent," Enjolras replied, going over to Combeferre and placing a hand on the back of his chair. He leaned over Combeferre's shoulder to scan the proofs on the table. Combeferre had looked up briefly when Enjolras came in, but had returned at once to his papers, his shoulders set. "Hm. Do you have the time to look over my letter to  _Le Moniteur_ once you have finished this?"

Combeferre's shoulders almost sagged in relief and he smiled at Bahorel's page of ink-blots and cross-outs. "Of course, Enjolras. I am glad to look over anything of yours- unlike some, you very seldom need correcting."

"And he accepts all your corrections, I take it," Bahorel said, sweeping his dominos back into the box.

"When I agree that they are necessary," Enjolras replied peaceably, and sat down beside Combeferre, at an angle where he could still see the rest of the room.

Jehan grew tired of waving his quill around and hopped off the table. "Courfeyrac, you agree, do you not?"

"With what?"

"The uselessness of  _vraisemblance_ , the stupidity of  _bienseance_ —"

"Of course I do," said Courfeyrac, frowning at a sub-clause he could not quite make out.

Jehan continued on, much heartened. "Why should there be restrictions on self-expression?"

"Eh, society demands it," Courfeyrac replied, deciding to underline the clause for later perusal. He got out his ink bottle and quill from his coat pocket and began setting them up on the cleared table. "No one knows exactly why it does any more, and the people who first decided upon it are dead, but it is easier for most of the world to accept the biases and rules they inherited than to think for themselves. Some rules- no stealing, for instance- make sense. They spring from the fundamental social contracts between any members of a functioning society. There must be a delineation of you versus me and yours versus mine."

"So you think we ought to safeguard the right to property?" asked Bahorel.

"Eh, to a point," Courfeyrac said, dipping his quill in the ink pot. "We ought to put some limits on it." He looked up and said, with a prim and saintly look that sent Joly into giggles, "There is great merit in self-restraint."

"Self-restraint?" cried Jehan, clutching at his chest. "Oh my God, Courfeyrac,  _how could you_?"

"Relax, I still pledge myself to Romanticism as much as I do to republicanism," Courfeyrac replied, laughing. "All I'm saying is that I see why  _vraisemblance_ was necessary. There are certain polite lies that maintain society, certain fictions that make no sense but are still upheld because no one can figure out how to end them. One has to live by some of them before one can change them."

"Ugh,  _lies_ ," Jehan exclaimed, jumping off the table, ready to dramatically fling himself into Courfeyrac's lap before Joly's quick, 'Ah-ah-ah, thigh wound'. He instead flung himself over Bahorel's shoulders. "Bahorel, can you believe Monsieur de Courfeyrac over there?" He didn't wait for Bahorel to answer and turned to scowl at Courfeyrac. "Would you rather be  _comfortable_ or be  _free_?"

"Free."

"Then why—"

"Because, to be free, and to free everyone else…." Courfeyrac trailed off, not entirely sure where he was going with this. "One… occasionally has to return to Plato's cave, where the other prisoners spend their time beguiled by shadows, and clasp on the same shackles everyone else wears. The other prisoners would ignore you otherwise; you would not be one of them. You would have no way to reach them. They might even punish you for trying to break free, when they themselves cannot, or will not."

"You would have the  _truth_ ," Jehan said fiercely.

"But it wouldn't help you to set anyone else free," Courfeyrac pointed out. "And that is our duty as enlightened philosophers."

"But we're  _Romantics_ ," Jehan protested, sulkily.

Courfeyrac burst out laughing. "No one denies you are, sulking over there like Werther over Charlotte! I would love to send the cave itself tumbling down, but that, alas, is not yet within my power."

Bahorel set down his box of dominos and then reached up to pat Jehan on the top of the head. "Not yet. Don't worry, our day will come, the trumpet shall sound, the veil in the temple shall be rent in two and we won't have to worry about good lies to tell the police when they ask us why we are hanging around printing houses in the Faubourg Saint-Antoine. As of right now, the truth will not set us free and, in fact, give us criminal records."

Jehan flopped dramatically into his own chair. "But it's not right!"

"No, but that's just the way it is for now," said Combeferre, looking up. "It must be changed, but the best change comes gradually, peacefully… though there must  _be_ change. I will have anything but stagnation."

Several students had been trickling in during Courfeyrac's speech and one immediately piped up, "But what kind of change can we have now?"

As more students arrived, the discussion on the restraint of classical drama began branching out in different directions. A couple of Polytechnicians began complaining of all of the arbitrary rules enforced by the king, particularly as it pertained to their school; Jehan, a few bousingots and several poets and artists got into a somewhat mystic discussion on what it meant, exactly, to be a Romantic; Drouet and his newspaper friends were incredibly acrimonious about the censorship laws and brought up Hugo's recently banned play as an example. The theatrical crowd Courfeyrac had recruited managed to confuse themselves as to why Hugo's play had been banned- one group believed that Hugo's verse form was too Romantic, another believed that the subject, the 'rehabilitation' of a prostitute, was to blame and Drouet, who was proud to say he had brought a copy of Hugo's letter of protest to  _Le Constitutionnel_ , insisted that Act IV had enraged the censors. Jehan and several other members of the Petit Cenacle that gathered  _chez Hugo_ to discuss Romanticism agreed.

Jehan had even read a copy- though the play was historical, the parallels were so blatant it was astonishing that Hugo had attempted to protest the banning of his play by saying that he hated works of art with snide contemporary allusions. In Act IV, the weak-willed and timid Louis XIII spent most of his time pining for the hunt and gradually dragging his country further and further to absolutism. Charles X was doing much the same thing, only he had also had the audacity to offer Hugo a pension of 4000 franc and a post on the Council of State to shut him up. Drouet quite proudly pointed out that Hugo had refused and that his editor at  _Le Constitutionel_ had come up with a real gem of a response: "The youth of France is not as corruptible as Ministers would hope."

This served to unify everyone into one, intense debate, wherein everyone flung out whatever point they wished to make without reference to the three or four side-debates on the same subject going on next to them.

It was the sort of scarcely organized chaos that Courfeyrac loved best, everyone flinging out an opinion, jumping off of one another, backtracking to find some fact or statistic to support their tottering edifice and then a more practical student pulling in a philosopher or a historical precedent to solidify their foundation. At times, Courfeyrac had the vague metaphor in mind of the Tower of Babel and wondered just why God would be silly enough to destroy something as incredible as that. It wasn't an act of hubris, it was the deep desire to understand, to overcome one's mortal limitations to see and embrace the absolute.

And, of course, once the debate had gotten sufficiently heated, Enjolras, listening, with a faint smile, to every conversation but partaking in none, spoke up. "It is true that de Vigny and Dumas have staged plays just as Romantic, but not as political as Hugo's  _Marion de Lorme._ It seems to me, citizens, that the current dictates of censorship has little to do with the gentlemen of the bedchamber's understanding of good literature, but of good politics."

Combeferre mildly protested, "But they are allowing Hugo's latest,  _Hernani_."

Bahorel thumped his table. "Yes, and so? It's a completely different play, probably berift of politics what-so-ever. It takes place in  _Spain_ , for Chrissake. It doesn't matter if they've relented on Romanticism, they're still upholding absolutism and they  _cannot_ be allowed to do so any longer!"

"Besides," piped up Jehan, with some enthusiastic table-thumping of his own, "Hugo said the censors thought his play was  _so bad_ they were just going to let the public riot it offstage! It's not true in the slightest, it's a brilliant play! We'll show them, won't we?"

Table-thumping appeared to be a communicable disease in the Latin Quarter, though many students kept to a traditional, "Here, here!" and all its slightly ruder variants.

"Citizens, you both have made excellent points," Enjolras replied, "but how shall we go about it?"

They arrived at no very satisfactory answer before six, when most of the group trickled out, promising to return again on Wednesday, when the Amis had another regularly scheduled meeting in the Musain. Courfeyrac stretched out and, feeling very virtuous, slid a volume of Keats out of his pocket and into his law textbook. Courfeyrac preferred not to be on his feet for very long and was waiting for the rest of the crowd to clear the passageway- or, at least that was what he told himself.

Courfeyrac felt a light touch on his shoulder and grinned. "Hallo Enjolras."

Enjolras squeezed his shoulder and then glanced at Courfeyrac's open book. "More Keats?"

"Yes. You'll like this one:

HENCE Burgundy, Claret, and Port,  
Away with old Hock and madeira,  
Too earthly ye are for my sport;  
There's a beverage brighter and clearer.  
Instead of a piriful rummer,  
My wine overbrims a whole summer;  
My bowl is the sky,  
And I drink at my eye,  
Till I feel in the brain  
A Delphian pain -  
Then follow, my Caius! then follow:  
On the green of the hill  
We will drink our fill  
Of golden sunshine,  
Till our brains intertwine  
With the glory and grace of Apollo!"

Courfeyrac looked up to see Enjolras smiling down at him. Courfeyrac grinned back in response. "You know you enjoy my Southern twang when I read aloud."

There was no one else there; Enjolras bent down and pressed a quick, gentle kiss to the corner of his lips, in apparent approval of Courfeyac's accent.

They both heard the sound of footsteps and moved apart slightly. Courfeyrac resumed his reading aloud.

"Hallo again Combeferre," Enjolras said, without looking up.

Combeferre glanced at Courfeyrac and Enjolras, puzzled, and said, "I… forgot to give you the revised letter Enjolras."

"Thank you," Enjolras replied. He moved quite tranquilly over to Combeferre and took the corrected letter, scanning through the revisions. "You disliked my light metaphor?"

"It seemed unfinished." Combeferre seemed unable to read Enjolras's expression and turned to Courfeyrac. "Are you reading Keats?"

"Yes- I missed over a month of classes and my Roman law professor advised me jus to re-start the semester." Courfeyrac stretched his leg, which was beginning to grow stiff from being in one position for too long. "So I am educating myself in the wisdom of nature as opposed to that of Roman law. I love this poem so far, the idea of liquid light is just wonderfully appealing, is it not?"

"Liquid light," murmured Enjolras before he bent over his letter and began writing furiously.

"I've certainly been drunk on summer before," Courfeyrac continued on, quite blithely, "and been positively intoxicated by the first rays of sunlight after a long gray spell."

"Oh, yes," said Combeferre, looking between them uncertainly. "I have remarked before that you are like a cat in that respect. If there's a patch of sunshine, you'll sprawl in it."

"What, don't you sometimes? It's bliss."

"I enjoy it, on occasion," said Enjolras, a little vaguely.

Combeferre stared at Enjolras. "You… Enjolras…."

Enjolras looked up. "Yes?"

Combeferre glanced between Enjolras and Courfeyrac again, unable to come to any very definite conclusion.

'Good,' thought Courfeyrac, a little savagely. He winced as he levered himself to his feet with his walking stick. "Well, back into the fray of everyday life."

"Shall I see you later this evening?" asked Enjolras.

Courfeyrac could not help grinning. "I'll be at home if you want me."

"I shall see you at half-past eight, then."

Courfeyrac was beyond pleased. Though he knew he might probably regret it later, he took a turn around the Luxembourg, to enjoy the fading winter sunlight, to rejoice in his unquestioned triumph and to try and figure out how to use his cane a bit more elegantly. After a few turns around the fountain he had managed a sort of slow meander that made it look as if he was just using his cane for the hell of it. Stairs were going to pose a problem, but-

" _MONSIEUR DE COURFEYRAC!"_

The last few ducks of the season squawked in alarm and took flight.

"Leave off the 'de' for Christ's sake! I- Drouet, what the hell?"

Drouet, pink and out of breath, stumbled down the steps towards the fountain, Jehan skipping along behind. Several other bohemians in various states of artistic display and sartorial nonconformity followed Jehan's bobbing Louis XIII hat.

"We'd been calling for you but you didn't hear us!" Jehan trilled out, holding one leg behind his back and hopping down the steps. One of the bousingots, with his hair brushed up about six inches over his forehead, followed suit; two decided not to use the staircase at all but to leap over the railing and roll down the bank and one took a flying leap and avoided the hill and the staircase altogether. One tiny bousingot jogged down the steps, much to the anguish and embarrassment of his compatriots.

"Paulier, that was  _weak_ ," Jehan said scathingly, which was a bit like being savaged by a kitten. "Make an effort next time, will you? Anyway, Courfeyrac- Drouet sold his story and all but his editor put him onto a new scoop and I don't know  _why_ I didn't think of this before when it's so  _obvious_ , but—"

"Hu- Hugo's latest," gasped out Drouet.

"Got banned, yeah?" said Courfeyrac.

Drouet shook his head, his hair flying from side to side.

"It's not his latest any longer!" squeaked out Paulier, in an attempt to regain bousingot street cred. "He's written a new one-  _Hernani_ \- about a Spanish brigand. It's in rehearsal at the Comedie-Francaise as we speak!"

"Oh yes, everyone was just talking about it," said Courfeyrac, setting his books down on the ledge of the fountain.

"And," said Jehan, bouncing up and down on the balls of his feet, "there's a whole group of us- I'm only the fringes, but Paddy here-" he pointed at a bousingot who did not look in the least Irish "-is  _chez Hugo_ nearly every other day and he and Paulier went today and mentioned how splendidly the Racine hiss-off went and- and oh it was this massive collaborative effort, Paulier said, and anyways, they were just telling me about it when we were thinking of getting dinner at Poisson's and… well the  _point is_ Courfeyrac, that Saturday evening was just the beginning. It was but the start of the labor of our artistic revolution."

"I'm not quite seeing the actual birth then," Courfeyrac said, minorly confused by the maelstrom of Jehan's enthusiasm.

"Of course not, it hasn't come yet. But you know how Enjolras was asking us how we should go about it? Well,  _I_ say we do with  _Hernani_ what we did to  _Athalie_ \- in reverse."

"Gather together a group of students and… cheer the piece?"

"Defend it," corrected Drouet, flushed from exertion and excitement. "It's so simple! But it will sell so well and- you know, it's beautiful in its simplicity. We have less of a chance to mess up."

"And," added Jehan, practically dancing in place, "if we  _show_ all the students that with a couple of leaders and a good battle plan we can  _accomplish anything_ we plan towards and put our minds to. I mean, it's not—" he glanced around and lowered his voice conspiratorially "—a barricade, but we'll be showing them that it is possible- that there  _can_ be… you know. What we've been waiting for. They tried to drag us back to the  _ancien regieme_ , but if they're determined to repeat history…"

Courfeyrac smiled slowly. "Then they're going to have to repeat the bits they don't like."

"Exactly," said Drouet, hiding his smile behind his fingers. " _Exactly_. Oh can you  _imagine_ the headlines? If they still let us publish, that is…."

"They can't always keep us mute," said Courfeyrac, with an irrepressible grin. "And gentlemen, I have the good fortune to be one of the best-spoken and out-spoken law students in all of Paris- and one with an incredible amount of time on his hands since I missed a month entire of classes, through no fault of my own, and am just going to have to give up on the semester."

Jehan flung his arms around Courfeyrac at once and impulsively kissed his cheek. "Oh! I  _knew_ you would do it- this will be a battle for the ages, I swear!"

"I mean, there will probably be a fair few laughs throughout the Latin Quarter that Courfeyrac is leading an army to victory, but it's been done before and I'll do it again. I'll talk to Enjolras about it first- he's sure to have some ideas." Courfeyrac could not stop smiling and had the vague feeling that this all had worked out remarkably well. He was out of classes, he was doing what he loved and would be doing it with someone he loved.

The bousingots cheered him soundly, and then linked hands and danced in a circle around him, more-or-less to annoy the bourgeois nannies shepherding their charges home for the evening. Once freed, Courfeyrac made his way back to his apartment, stopping only to pick up dinner at a nearby  _traiteur_ , since he was relatively sure Enjolras would forget to eat before coming.

Courfeyrac took the time to find a clean sheet and drape it over the table as a cloth, then to set the table with what clean plates he had (he even washed the fork and spoon he had, and magnanimously gave Enjolras the fork and reserved the spoon for himself). At the last second he remembered that Enjolras never drank and, grumbling all the way, went down to draw a bucket of water from the well in the courtyard. Enjolras met him on the way up and, without doing anything more than smiling, took the bucket and followed Courfeyrac upstairs.

Enjolras was predictably ignorant of Courfeyrac's efforts at a decent dinner presentation and ate only because Courfeyrac put a plate in front of him and a fork in his hand. He paid no attention to anything in fact, but Courfeyrac's embellished report on just  _how_ they ought to manifest their political principals and what the bousingots proposed to do.

"It's a rare instance of life imitating art," said Courfeyrac, grinning and trying  _not_ to be distracted at the way Enjolras's hair gleamed softly in the candlelight. "Just imagine what will happen once the Romantics realize that they actually can  _do_ something about what they believe in, and that it will work when they do!"

Enjolras smiled. "Courfeyrac ,you have hit upon an ingenious solution. This is obviously your battle, but I will do whatever I can to assist you."

"You're the chief!"

"No, you are."

Courfeyrac looked at Enjolras, so suddenly filled with tenderness he felt overwhelmed by it. "God, Enjolras, if anyone ever lives his ideals, it's you."

"I will cede my role to anyone better suited for it," he replied mildly.

"I refuse- you're my chief, I'll follow you."

"Courfeyrac, we are equals. I will not hear any more of this. I am hardly suited for the theatre. I will assist you however you wish- but pray do not expect me to storm the Comedie-Francaise."

Courfeyrac leaned his elbow on the table and propped his chin in his hand. "I feel like we should toast or something. It has yet to sink in, but I think… we could very possibly be getting ourselves on the road to revolution."

"I believe we are on it already. We are simply advancing, as we always believed we would."

"I did have a good bottle of muscat I was going to offer you," said Courfeyrac.

He paused with his waterglass half-raised, seeming to realize why he had met Courfeyrac lugging a bucket of water upstairs. "You take remarkable care of me."

"I'm learning to take more care with everything," replied Courfeyrac, with a smile. "Can I persuade you to take a glass? It's like drinking liquid sunshine."

Enjolras smiled suddenly and finished off his water. "A small one."

Courfeyrac opened the bottle at once and, once the wine had sufficiently breathed, poured himself a glass. Enjolras held out his glass and Courfeyrac, being the shameless creature that he was, gently took Enjolras by the wrist, tugged him closer and kissed him. As was usual with Courfeyrac, the kissing became intense very quickly. He pressed himself against Enjolras eagerly and, though making quick work of Enjolras's coat, waistcoat and cravat, was very abruptly stopped when he tried to take off Enjolras's suspenders. Enjolras broke off the kiss and stepped back, running a hand through his hair in an oddly Combeferreish gesture.

Courfeyrac could not conceal how hurt he was. "Enjolras—"

Enjolras shook his head, as if to clear it. His golden hair, now in disarray, fell loosely about his face and he seemed to hide behind it. "No."

"No?"

"Not yet."

It was a bittersweet response; Courfeyrac sat down again and drank his glass of wine. "Alright. We'll go at your pace, then."

Enjolras sounded almost relieved. "Thank you."

"It's not that bad," Courfeyrac said, still a little hurt and staring sulkily at the floor. Much to Courfeyrac's surprise, Enjolras knelt before him and tipped Courfeyrac's chin up.

"It is only…." Enjolras trailed off and ran his fingers across Courfeyrac's cheek, with agonizing gentleness. "There will be no turning back for me, when it comes to that."

"Is that so bad?"

Enjolras's level gaze was somehow as agonizing as the gentleness of his touch. "Courfeyrac, it's not a choice to be made lightly. It will, for both of us, be a life of constant concealment and half-truths."

"Not between the two of us," Courfeyrac protested.

"No, never between the two of us," Enjolras replied, with a smile that lit up the room that better than the fire or the candles. "But around everyone else, yes. I have been honest with you and I will be honest with you. I can scarce imagine being otherwise."

"And if it so happens that the only place we can be truly honest is with each other?" asked Courfeyrac. "If  _I_ am honest, it wouldn't surprise me if that was the case. We have the misfortune to live in a terribly false society. I don't consider myself to be part of it. I can pass as if I am, but no one seems to notice how I am trying to pull it down while I'm doing so. How will this be any different?"

Enjolras looked at him quietly, his fingertips resting light against Courfeyrac's cheek.

"Will they see what they don't want to see?" pressed on Courfeyrac, before Enjolras had a chance to respond. "This is the same as hiding gunpowder and cartridges or illegal pamphlets."

"We are, each of us, willing to die for our principles." Enjolras stroked Courfeyrac's cheek with an unexpected tenderness. "That is not the question. The question is, are we willing to live for each other? With each other? It is a different truth than the one we have pledged ourselves too- no less important, but with a power of wounding far more deeply. Is it a truth for which you can live and die?"

Courfeyrac turned slightly to kiss Enjolras's palm and hated himself for not having an answer. The only thing that reassured him was that Enjolras did not have an answer either. "Well, you'll find out with me, won't you?"

Enjolras kissed him lightly on the forehead. "Yes."


	10. Chapter Ten

The months flew by in a suitably Romantic whirlwind of action, debate and odd manifestation. Courfeyrac easily gained entrance into the two main artistic salons of the day. He got into Nodier's through some friends of his family, and into Hugo's through Jehan's reports of both the Racine hiss-off and an earlier (and much more haphazard) attempt of Courfeyrac's to support of one of Dumas's plays, i.e. Courfeyrac had gotten extremely drunk during the premiere and tried to smash a statue of Racine while shouting out various Romantic slogans. Courfeyrac also had the pleasure of hearing himself introduced as a patron of the arts. Hugo misheard at first and declared Courfeyrac a paladin of the arts. Characteristically, when Mme Hugo attempted to point out his mistake, Hugo insisted that he had been correct. When both the critic Sainte-Beuve and the playwright Dumas agreed with Mme Hugo, a very vexed Hugo pulled a medieval sword off the wall and dubbed Courfeyrac "a paladin of the Romantic movement" in the middle of his salon.

This, combined with Courfeyrac's warm personality, his wide circle of friends and his easy ability to expand it, made him the natural captain of the battle. He shared the responsibility of quasi-military leadership with several other Romantics, but they took over specific circles and ateliers. Courfeyrac took the law and medical students as his own personal battalion, but gave out general battle plans and was highly gratified to have each division leader report to him. After all, he had been knighted by Hugo himself, in an odd mélange of egocentric and Romantic behavior; no one else would have been accepted as their chief, short of Hugo himself. Jehan was Courferyac's aide-de-camp and lieutenant and, much to everyone's mild astonishment, he and Jehan managed to avoid their usual run of luck, i.e. Bossuet's, whenever they were assigned to do something together.

When Bahorel had pointed that out at the end of an informal lunch in the Musain one chilly day in January, Courfeyrac had tried to protest. Bossuet gave a polite cough and muttered, "leg!"

"I… well before that—"

"Didn't Jehan fall out of a tree?" asked Combeferre, looking up from the remnants of his meal.

Courfeyrac waved his fork around dismissively. "No, he hasn't since autumn."

"Oh no, that was in September. The time before Courfeyrac got shot, Courfeyrac sprained a wrist and I got bruises all over my arms trying to hide a printing press." Jehan had finished his dinner and, for whatever reason, was now calmly rolling leaves into paper and turning them into slim tubes. Since Jehan often did bizarre things simply for the pleasure of being bizarre, no one said anything, or, in fact, looked at him a second time once they had determined that he was rolling leaves into paper tubes. "Oh, and I almost broke an arm, but it turned out that it was just a contusion and Joly was just panicking."

"Therefore, forgive us our doubt," Combeferre said dryly. "Jehan, I notice that you have been occupying yourself in a somewhat unusual manner. What are you making?"

"Cigarillos," said Jehan, pushing his plate to the side arranging them like a fan on the tabletop. He frowned at his design, then took one out, jumbled the rest together and looked extraordinarily pleased with himself. "There! Why an external imposition of order? Here, Courfeyrac, you take this one and smoke it like a cigar."

"I don't think those are actually cigarillos," Combeferre said doubtfully.

"Oh no, you're right," said Jehan, regarding his pile thoughtfully. "They're… what's it. Paulier went to Spain for a month with his father- there's an uncle of his who was with Bonaparte and bought some property there and then there was an inheritance issue- but, anyways, he arrived in Paris again yesterday and brought these back and he said that they were going to come to France sometime this year. Cigarettes, he called them."

Courfeyrac stuck the cigarette between his lips and leaned down to light it from a candle in the center of the table. He inhaled with the air of a connoisseur and proclaimed, through a mouthful of smoke, "I quite prefer them to cigars."

"Less bourgeois," agreed Jehan. "The farm and factory workers of Spain smoke them."

Courfeyrac grinned. "I think these will be all the rage in a month or so."

"Always on the cutting edge of fashion," Combeferre said, with dry good-humor, "Courfeyrac begins smoking cigarettes in January 1830. In the centuries that follow, no one will be able to picture a Parisian without a cigarette in hand."

"Just watch, we'll change the world in our own small way," said Courfeyrac.

"I never doubted you would," replied Combeferre, with a laugh. "I have always thought our contribution would be more substantial than cigarettes, however."

"Ooooh it will be," said Jehan, with an expression of serene satisfaction. "We all came to the conclusion that we'd costume ourselves, and Rosalie and Musichetta said they'd pull in all the freelance grisettes they knew to help us get in costume before the 25th of February. Oh and Courfeyrac has some friends who are  _habitués_ of the Théâtre-Italien, and they have a rivalry with the Comédie-Francaise, so they gave us some pointers—"

"As to the actual effect," said Bahorel, to Combeferre. "We'll see. I have high hopes for this- better than a riot, really, at showing the other groups that we students can have just as much seriousness of purpose as any of them."

"And we could pester Feuilly until he snaps out the truth at us," said Bossuet.

"Let me think today's… Sunday?" Courfeyrac frowned and tilted his chair back, which was a really poor choice. Streaks of pain, as vivid as a splash of red paint over a finished canvas, shot up and down his leg. Courfeyrac winced and lowered himself back down. "Sunday- so Feuilly's at the Louvre."

"I hope you're not proposing to walk to the Louvre in this weather," Combeferre said in alarm.

"And why not?"

"Because you just hurt your leg stretching it," Combeferre pointed out.

Courfeyrac mumbled something that made sense to no one, including himself.

"Joly told me that old wounds can act up in extreme temperatures," Bossuet ventured. "I'm sure on St. Helena, Bonaparte always got twinges of Moscow in the winter."

"It's not that bad," Courfeyrac protested, albeit halfheartedly. "Look, I'll take an omnibus if it makes you feel better. The one that goes through the Latin Quarter… let me think… goes over the Pont au Change to the Quai de Megisserie and then I can switch omnibuses to get to the Louvre."

Combeferre did not agree with this plan at all, particularly since there was ice on some of the roads still, but Courfeyrac continued arguing until Combeferre was just too weary to keep going. After nearly falling on some of the black ice and aggravating his leg wound yet further, Courfeyrac began to wish that he hadn't been quite so persistent. He felt quite miserable in the omnibus, even with most of the sash windows closed, and was deeply unhappy standing in line to get into the Louvre. He had to sit down once he was inside, and, even though it was warm, he could not quite bring himself to part with his overcoat.

Once he could move his leg without wincing, Courfeyrac levered himself up with his cane and hobbled towards the newest wing of the Louvre, where Feuilly could usually be found. It was usually empty on free days (as the wing, opened by Charles X, had lost the sheen of novelty and the crowds flocked to the wing full of Salon works instead) and it was full of the classical figures Feuilly enjoyed sketching.

Feuilly was indignant to see Courfeyrac limping towards him through a roomful of classical Greek vases and furniture and demanded to know why Courfeyrac would be enough of an idiot to go to the Louvre while still not fully recovered and with black ice on some of the roads.

Courfeyrac leaned heavily on his cane. "To see if you wanted a ticket to  _Hernani_."

"Idiot, you could have saved yourself the trouble and asked Musichetta," replied Feuilly, returning to his notebook. "Not interested."

"Why not?" When Feuilly did not respond, Courfeyrac added, "I've taken all the trouble of hunting you down, you might as well tell me."

Feuilly shut his notebook and leaned forward. "Alright, don't let that poet one know, since I don't know if he'd be crushed or absolutely furious, but do you really expect- expect  _people like me_ —" this said with surprising bitterness "—to risk our livelihoods and the lives of our wives and our sisters and our children on a revolt led by a bunch of schoolboys?"

"We're not  _just_ a bunch of schoolboys," Courfeyrac said, trying (and failing) to elegantly straighten himself up once again. "Would it help at all if I could prove to you that when we are capable of feats of astonishing efficacy?"

"Are you really?"

"Feuilly, your skepticism wounds me deeply."

"I will admit…." Feuilly hesitated. "I will admit I was hoping that… I mean, you just have to look at Enjolras to see that revolutions are serious business for at least some of you."

"They are for most of us," Courfeyrac replied, trying to shift weight off of his injured leg while still looking like he had a cane for fashion's sake instead of out of necessity. "I mean, we're just… students. We joke about what we hold the closest to our hearts."

Feuilly looked at Courfeyrac intently, as if he was planning some sort of figure study in his head, examining Courfeyrac at all angles and in all of the minutest variations to try and get the truth of him on paper. Eventually he said, "You don't have to stand on ceremony with me. Come sit."

"Thank you," Courfeyrac said, with a rush of gratitude. He gingerly lowered himself onto the window ledge by Feuilly. He tilted his head to the side and looked at the antique vases in front of Feuilly. "Charles X likes antiquity, doesn't he?"

"More keen on taking things that belong to other countries and sticking them in the Louvre," said Feuilly. "Admittedly, I benefit by this exploitation of the cultural patrimony of others, I'm not denying it, but a ceremonial statue of Athena that the Greeks built and sacrificed to for centuries ought to stay in Greece, eh?"

"I think it's because he's a little leery of our own past- of France's past- even though he's doing his damnedest to drag us back there."

Feuilly scrawled a small 'absolutism?' running along the side of a study of the side of a vase.

Courfeyrac nodded; Feuilly smudged the charcoal and the message was an inoffensive shadow. "But still," said Courfeyrac, "it would do well to turn back to our own history. Heard about  _Hernani_?"

"Yep," said Feuilly, a little absently.

"Ever thought of looking into it?"

"Why, it's medieval, it's all—" Feuilly waved a hand.

"—no, not part of the… er, shadows, as it were. It's amazing what you can hide by taking up the very tools of those who wish to stop you."

Feuilly looked at Courfeyrac almost sternly. "Bit dangerous, that."

"Don't I know it," said Courfeyrac, wincing as he stretched out his leg. "But you might find some like minds wandering around the medieval displays."

"Student minds," said Feuilly, not bothering to look up from his sketches.

"But there are so many students!" Courfeyrac protested. "Law students and medical students yes, but also poets, politicians and Polytechnicians. I believe Combeferre used to be a Polytechnician."

This seemed to reassure Feuilly, though he glanced up to make sure that they were still alone. "Yeah, but the Polytechnicians, competent as they are, have to stay in their barracks. When the time comes—"

"When the time comes, it's people like Enjolras and the Polytechnicians will probably be leading impromptu divisions. That's what they're trained for!" He paused. "The… leading divisions bit, not the—" he waved a hand to signify 'revolting against the government'. "That bit- even though it's what they end up doing anyways. If there's a student protest, you can be damn sure that the Polytechnicens got involved somehow. I swear, the first thing they learn in the Polytechnique is how to  _escape_ the Polytechnique. Perhaps that's the practical application of their training? Anyways, Feuilly-"

"I…" Feuilly scowled at his shadow studies. "Look Courfeyrac, do you understand what it is you're asking?"

"Nothing I wouldn't do myself," Courfeyrac said gently. "And, what's more, nothing definite for now- only for you to think on it."

Feuilly kept scowling at a particularly troublesome shadow. Courfeyrac looked around the room, in vague search of inspiration. The hall was mostly deserted, the medieval collection and the new artwork drawing the majority of the crowds. Courfeyrac did hear some footsteps approaching, however and added, "Look Feuilly, I won't press you on anything, I'm just asking you to think. And maybe take a look at the medieval exhibit. You may find something you like there."

After a moment, Feuilly said, "Alright, but no promises. I risk a hell of a lot more than you do."

Courfeyrac agreed and managed to get Feuilly into the wing of the Louvre housing the medieval artwork and artifacts. Feuilly found the medieval carvings of saints an insult to proportion, but also found Enjolras striding towards them and muttered something about Courfeyrac setting up stupidly obvious metaphors.

"Enjolras!" Courfeyrac's exclamation of pleasure was almost involuntary.

Enjolras arrived in front of them with a smile. "Courfeyrac. I was looking for you. Hello, Feuilly. I hope you are well?"

"Well enough," said Feuilly, who always got a bit surly in the light of Enjolras's smiles. "And you?"

"Fine, thank you." Enjolras glanced at Courfeyrac, his gaze lingering on Courfeyrac's walking stick.

"I took the omnibus here," Courfeyrac said half-heartedly.

"So Combeferre told me." Enjolras raised his eyebrows very slightly and changed the subject, speaking quite calmly of the preparations for the "battle" of  _Hernani_ , the growing cost of living gap, Prouvaire's new-found passion for statistics, the unemployment rate and, in a few cryptic metaphors, Charles X's new ordinances. Courfeyrac was almost surprised to discover himself sitting on an almost deserted staircase down to some really ugly wooden statues of saints, with Feuilly whispering furiously to them both about Poland to them both. Courfeyrac was a little bemused at the efficacy of Enjolras's leadership. As was usual with Feuilly, however, Feuilly caught himself in the middle of the full flow of his enthusiasm, flushed and began packing up his satchel. "All well and good to talk—"

"And one day we will do so freely," said Enjolras.

Feuilly paused and looked at Enjolras. Enjolras smiled and, for once, Feuilly did not look exasperated by it. "And you really think we will?"

"I know so."

"You've only to look at  _Hernani_ to see it," replied Courfeyrac. "We're changing the way people think and express themselves. If we get rid of the rules that govern how we see life and how we're supposed to understand it…." He grinned. "In the words of another Romantic, who knows much better than I do, 'Romanticism is liberalism in art.' If we have a triumph of Romanticism, and one believes in the adage that art reflects life, then…."

Feuilly fussed with his bag. "Yes well… we'll see. I've got a lot of friends with the same opinions. We'll wait and see how this  _Hernani_ thing turns out- damn." A strap had broken; he wandered off absently trying to reattach it to his bag, leaving Enjolras and Courfeyrac still on the steps.

Enjolras gently smoothed the curls off of Courfeyrac's forehead.

"It'll be fine," said Courfeyrac, with a smile. "Just give me a hand up."

Enjolras did, but also, once they had caught up with Feuilly outside, attempted to get Courfeyrac to take a carriage back to his apartment.

"I don't need a fiacre," Courfeyrac said, exasperated.

"So sitting in a cold omnibus is the latest medical practice for treating leg wounds that nearly killed you when you first received them," said Feuilly, blowing on his fingers. He had gloves on, but they were cloth, quite unlike the fur-lined leather ones that Courfeyrac and Enjolras both pulled on. Courfeyrac, seeing this, upped his protests and refused to budge until Enjolras and Feuilly shared a look and physically put Courfeyrac into a fiacre. He struggled enough to keep Feuilly in the fiacre in the fiacre after it had started to move.

Courfeyrac swore at them in Occitan, though his heart wasn't really in it.

"Citizen Feuilly," Enjolras said imperturbably, over Courfeyrac's stream of increasingly nonsensical vulgarity, "I believe that you recently moved lodgings?"

"Yeah, couldn't stand the grisette who replaced Musichetta and I had to find a new atelier since my old one closed down. I'm near Notre-Dame, it's closer to my atelier."

Courfeyrac took this to mean the slums around Notre-Dame and also to mean that Feuilly had suffered more from a few weeks of unemployment than he had ever let on.

"I hope you will allow us to drop you off at your building," Enjolras continued on, as Courfeyrac absent-mindedly lapsed into reciting troubadour love poetry in Occitan. "It is on the way to Courfeyrac's apartment."

"I'm surprised there's that many curses in Occitan," said Feuilly.

"Courfeyrac appears to be inventing some of his own," replied Enjolras, which had some truth in it, as Courfeyrac had given up on actual vulgarity and had mixed up two poems until he was not actually saying anything at all. When he realized just what he was saying, Courfeyrac gave up on Occitan entirely, stretched out his leg and allowed Enjolras's imperturbable calm to pull him out of a mild sulk. After they had dropped off Feuilly and returned to Courfeyrac's apartment, Enjolras paid the driver and, by virtue of being quiet and just looking at Courfeyrac, got Courfeyrac to pile wood on the fire, take off his boots, coats and waistcoat and stretch out on the bed.

"I haven't been overdoing it," said Courfeyrac.

Enjolras didn't say anything, but sat on the edge of the bed and looked down at Courfeyrac.

"I… maybe a little," Courfeyrac said, grudgingly. "I'll nap until dinner if it will make you feel better- it's just frustrating to be so- so  _limited._ "

"And so ignoring your limitations are the best way to defeat them?" asked Enjolras, raising one blond eyebrow.

Courfeyrac grumpily rolled over and punched a pillow until it was properly fluffy again. "Must you use logic against me?"

"Very cruel of me, I'm sure," Enjolras replied dryly. "Courfeyrac…." Courfeyrac, who had settled down for a nice, comfortable sulk, felt Enjolras's hand on his hair. "No one doubts you can do this. Simply be—"

"Careful," Courfeyrac finished. He propped himself up on one elbow and held the other arm out to Enjolras. "Rest with me a while, then? I have today's and yesterday's papers, I liberated a few of them from cafes, but I did buy  _some_ of them."

Enjolras brushed Courfeyrac's curls to the side and kissed his forehead before sitting against the headboard with the  _Journal de debats_. Courfeyrac rested his head in Enjolras's lap. Despite the leaps forward Courfeyrac had been making on the Romantic front, the romantic front that specifically concerned Enjolras and Enjolras alone advanced considerably more slowly. They spent most of their evenings together and usually ended up sharing the same bed- but chastely, of course, which sometimes made Courfeyrac pull his curls into frizz in frustration. He had managed to get Enjolras's shirt off at Christmas (and was very thankful for the extremely pleasant gift), but usually got no farther than removing a suspender- or, if he was quick enough, two. After that Enjolras usually pulled away, with a few, very gentle, kisses that Courfeyrac knew were meant to be consoling.

"Enjolras?"

A rustle of paper; Courfeyrac looked up to see Enjolras immediately folding up the newspaper and putting it on the bedside table.

"I…." Courfeyrac wanted so badly for an, 'I love you' to slip out, as easily as it had with his mistresses, but it suddenly struck him as a very serious thing to say, that entirely captured the feeling he had had, for the past few months, of sunbathing in the light of a stained glass window, but carried a weight to it that was slightly frightening. "I- I won't disappoint you," came out instead. "Not like—"

"You never have." Enjolras gently brushed the curls off of Courfeyrac's forehead, a gesture which Courfeyrac was coming to realize meant, 'I love you'. Enjolras had never said it, and Courfeyrac didn't think it was particularly necessary.

There was such gentleness in the gesture, in the quiet sound of Enjolras's voice and his pure Loire accent, in the softness of his gaze that Courfeyrac had to hide his face against Enjolras's thigh. He could not bring himself to speak about it again afterwards, but dedicated himself anew to mustering his Romantic army.

There was more riding on the outcome of this particular battle than he cared to admit.

Thus, to the surprise of all the other Amis, Courfeyrac, without losing any of the verve and enthusiasm which so characterized him, threw his energies into organization. As soon as he received the red tickets for  _Hernani_  marked 'Hierro' (according to Jehan, they meant 'iron'), Courfeyrac passed them out to his battalion leaders, with the strict injunction to give them only to Romantics who would pledge their reputations to the cause- which, more often than not, was more difficult than getting someone to pledge their life. As per the instructions of the literary critics and other playwrights, Courfeyrac entered into the scheme to deliberately disseminate bits of the script among literate circles. He gave copies of the most incendiary scenes to Feuilly, to pass around the workers (and to give Feuilly a chance at getting a head start on the new medieval atheistic and the new rush on  _Hernani_ paraphernalia), and to Musichetta, to pass around to the printers and book-binders of Paris. Musichetta and her friends also provided another vital service to the Romantic Army.

"Here you are, deliveries from the workshop of Musichetta and Rosalie," Joly announced on the evening of February 24th, arriving in the backroom with his arms full of packages. "All alterations have been finished and all extra details added." Joly began dropping the packages in front of different Amis. Jehan, of course, had a package that he tore into eagerly. Courfeyrac himself was not immune to the allure of new clothing, but opened his more slowly, so as to keep himself from accidentally ripping any part of his new costume.

"What's all this?" asked Combeferre, curious.

Drouet hid his smile behind his spread fingers. "If I'm not mistaken, it's part of my new headline, isn't it?"

"That it is!" exclaimed Courfeyrac, delightedly sorting out the new pieces of his outfit. "After all, you cannot send your troops into battle without the appropriate uniform."

One of the escaped Polytechnicians who usually gravitated towards Combeferre (who had been a Polytechnician himself once, or so Courfeyrac vaguely thought), plucked at his own uniform and sighed. "Must be nice to choose it."

"The red and black go wonderfully together," Courfeyrac said comfortingly. "But no, we're outfitting ourselves for the Battle of  _Hernani_!"

"I ordered a new doublet just for the occasion," Jehan said proudly. "Just  _look_ at that brocade! Oh, Musichetta always comes up with the most flattering designs and Rosalie could out-sew Arachne! Oooh, look at it Combeferre!" He skipped over to Combeferre and proudly held out his doublet, as a child would with a highly-marked essay.

Combeferre smiled. "Those two certainly understand the practical aspects of bringing the Romantic movement to fruition."

" _Do_ say that you persuaded Musichetta to take a ticket, Joly," Courfeyrac said, balancing his chair on its hindlegs, and feeling very pleased that it did not hurt his leg to do so.

"She did point out, quite rationally, that it was no place for a woman," Joly said, with remarkable good cheer, "so I took her measurements to my tailor and provided her with an excellent Cherubino costume. I wrapped them up with a ticket and stuck them on her worktable, so hopefully she'll like the gift and agree to go with me. I never know with Musichetta sometimes. She might just sulk at me instead. She is frighteningly good at sulking. Oh, but she was enormously pleased with your costume, she said that even Enjolras would take the time to admire it. What did she make you?"

Courfeyrac beamed. "Wait ten minutes and I'll show you!"

Louison was not in the scullery, so Courfeyrac changed very carefully and even took the time to pull out a newly cleaned pot to arrange his hair correctly and give himself the proper accoutrements. He thus made his grand entrance sure of his sartorial perfection, and was highly gratified to see several conversations die out once he had flung open the door to the back room. Grantaire of course, was rambling to no one at all and not paying the slightest bit of attention to Courfeyrac's new outfit, but it was  _Grantaire_ , so Courfeyrac did not feel terribly offended.

"Ta da," said Courfeyrac, spreading out his arms. "What do you think? Do I make a good Saint-Just?"

Enjolras looked at him with an expression caught between dazed and pleased, before masking it with one of somewhat tender amusement. "Courfeyrac, did you pierce your ears?"

"No, these are borrowed from Musichetta and very firmly tied on with string," replied Courfeyrac, fingering his gold hoops. "I had to promise to be exceptionally careful and to return them as soon as possible."

Bahorel came up then and let out a great boom of laughter. "Well hello there, citizen representative! I see you are ready for the theatre. Courfeyrac, how the devil did they knock you up such a perfect representative on mission costume?"

"Well I don't have a hat, but Musichetta told me I'd only lose it if I had it now... which is perfectly true. She said I wasn't to get it until we lined up to get into the Comédie-Française, as she is extremely proud of the hat and thinks it is far too nice for me to lose." Courfeyrac struck a dramatic pose, as if he were inspiring the Army of the Republic, or symbolically condemning the monarchy to death. "Nothing can withstand the concentrated might of the republic! More seriously though, I'm  _hoping_ to recruit. An artistic revolution is brilliant, a political one even more so."

"The divide between art and life is not so wide a gap as to prevent anyone from crossing it," Jehan said, a little dreamily. "Oooh, this is going to be so  _splendid_  I haven't even the words! It's like when Dante saw Paradise- it was too magnificent to ever be fit into words, it just  _was_  and was, quite frankly, glorious."

The meeting moved on at that point, though Courfeyrac was much too pleased with himself to take off his costume. Though he very conscientiously applied himself to battle plans and the debate on how best to make their artistic revolution a political one, there was a warmth in Enjolras's gaze that Courfeyrac could not entirely ignore. The consciousness of having pleased acted like a general amplifier to Courfeyrac's usual, easy, insouciant charm. He was even further at ease in his skin, with a languid grace to his movements that held the attention and a smile that promised any pleasure the viewer experienced would very certainly continue. Still, he stayed on task while the others were there and felt slightly accomplished at having done so.

Once they were alone in the back room, however, Enjolras looked up and said, "Courfeyrac?"

"Yes?" replied Courfeyrac, coming over.

Enjolras seized him in his arms and kissed him far more passionately than ever before.

"Oh," Courfeyrac said in response.

Enjolras decided that leaving Courfeyrac with enough breath to respond had been a failing on his part, and so acted accordingly to redress this grievous error. Courfeyrac was more than willing to assist him in this endeavor and, once Enjolras had finished, Courfeyrac could not speak at all. He instead clung to Enjolras and made a small, almost purred sound of approval. Enjolras lightly scratched Courfeyrac's head, tangling a hand in the loose waves of Courfeyrac's hair.

"I take it you approve of my latest manifestation of political sentiment," Courfeyrac said, once he had managed to start breathing evenly once again. Enjolras, seeing this, took steps to change it. The time passed pleasantly- so  _very_ pleasantly in fact, that Courfeyrac began to feel rather over-dressed in his Saint-Just costume. Once he managed to shed his coat, the kissing grew more desperate; Courfeyrac was half-drunk on the pleasure seeing Enjolras allowing free reign to his passions. It was the uplifting intoxication Courfeyrac experienced whenever he heard Enjolras make one of those characteristic overflowings of the soul that came out as speeches, the same feeling that Enjolras had extended a hand to him and pulled him to a summit where- at last, despite all the shadows that pressed in- Courfeyrac could see the sunrise, forcing away the darkness of the night, blazing across the horizon with breathtaking force.

Even now Courfeyrac was having difficulty breathing from the glory of it all. He had his fists clenched in Enjolras's shirt and he was pressed so close he could feel Enjolras's heartbeat and dizzily confused it with his own. He was almost irrational with pleasure; he wished to destroy each and every barrier that separated him from Enjolras and he groaned softly each time one got in the way. It was so tempting just to slide a hand between them- to rid themselves of the few, very flimsy divisions that kept them from experiencing that sunrise for themselves-

Someone knocked on the back door and Enjolras drew back, leaving Courfeyrac, deprived of Enjolras's support, to collapse into a chair and feel an odd mixture of desire, bemusement, happiness, relief and disappointment. He almost ached for Enjolras.

"Yes?" asked Enjolras.

Courfeyrac realized that someone was going to come in and hastily pulled his coat back on and arranged his clothing so that he might have just been reading a book of poetry instead of getting kissed within an inch of his self-control. He also managed to tug Enjolras down to put his hair back in order and to adjust Enjolras's hastily pulled on coat to better hide the rather obvious effects of their previous occupation.

Jehan stuck his head around the door. "Hallo Enjolras- oh, and Courfeyrac! Sorry, I can come back later. I've just been to a dinner at Nodier's and—" looking incredibly proud of himself "—I read a sonnet of mine to Hugo _himself_! And Nodier said that something may yet be made of me, for I have the vision of a true poet, seeing past what is before us to what is true, and Hugo said that I have  _Chernier's_ good understanding of natural rhyme, though I need to stop confusing God and the Eternal."

"Always a hazard of metaphysical speculation," said Courfeyrac.

"At any rate," Jehan said, blithely, "I am very sorry to disturb you, as I am sure you have much to discuss, but I wanted to tell you that everyone knows now to be there at one, since the police are closing the theatre at three, rather stupidly, and to bring their own provisions. Thank you for finding it out!"

"What are friends on the police force for?" asked Courfeyrac. "Besides a smashingly good game of dominos off-duty, that is. Thank you for double-checking on everyone for me."

Jehan paused, looked at Courfeyrac and said, "I am quite sorry, by the way- I had thought…."

"My leg's fine," Courfeyrac said, with a smile. "Really Jehan, it wasn't your fault. If you must blame someone, blame the policeman."

"No, it's only that I've seen you in pain and I think sometimes I have accidentally made it worse," Jehan said, quite sincerely. "I never meant to, but I got so dreadfully caught up in my own concerns I didn't notice the harm I had unintentionally caused. I hope you can forgive me."

"Oh always," said Courfeyrac.

Jehan saluted. "Thank you, captain!"

"At ease lieutenant- I'll see you later."

Once Jehan had left, Enjolras gently brushed the hair off of Courfeyrac's forehead.

"Will you stay with me tonight?" Courfeyrac asked, trying to keep his tone light and airy.

Enjolras paused, then kissed Courfeyrac's forehead very tenderly. "Given just now, it is not a good idea."

Courfeyrac pulled a face. "Using logic again? Really Enjolras, you are being very disobliging but I know…." He looked up at Enjolras, reassured at how Enjolras continued to stroke his fringe. "I won't ever force you into something that makes you uncomfortable; I care for you too much to do that. I can…." Courfeyrac let out an exasperated puff of air. "I understand…."

Enjolras tilted Courfeyrac's chin up and bent down to chastely kiss him. " _Ca ira._ "

Nothing more needed to be said.


	11. Chapter Eleven

Courfeyrac reluctantly went to bed by himself that evening and spent most of the night alternately smoking, dozing and simply  _wondering_. The next morning he could not actually manage to fit his half-connected thoughts from the night into words or explain why it had been so difficult to fall asleep without Enjolras beside him. He was in an uncommonly thoughtful mood as he gathered together his provisions and pulled on his Saint-Just costume. It quickly faded into excitement as he arrived on the Rue de Richelieu at a quarter until one and saw the long queue of Romantics blocking traffic- pedestrian and otherwise. There were several very perplexed carriage horses twitching their ears in bewilderment at the mostly figures before them, and the be-sabred policemen attempting to keep the Romantics in an organized line. Jehan, looking as if he was going to go sit for a painting by Velàsquez in his ruff and doublet, was standing towards the front of the line and waved at Courfeyrac eagerly.

Courfeyrac strolled over and was delighted to see that Jehan had a box with a representative-on-mission hat in it. The sight of such a magnificent hat, with its tricolor plumes, served to drive out any lingering melancholy at once. Courfeyrac put it on, listening with amusement to Gautier's exasperated protests that the red waistcoat he had chosen to pair with his broad-brimmed hat, pale green and black striped trousers and his enormously lapeled overcoat was a. actually a  _doublet_  and b.  _not a political statement, God, he wasn't a Saint-Simonian._ Bahorel, standing by him in an eye-bleedingly crimson waist-coat, merely clapped Gautier on the shoulder and shook his head.

Despite the fact that the theatre employees had now come out on the second-story balcony and had begun to pelt the long line of Romantics with the contents of the theatre's waste baskets, Courfeyrac was abuzz with excitement. He could scarcely keep still and Jehan wasn't much better. He was bouncing up and down in line, tossing out steadily more excited and less coherent witticisms until the doors opened and a stream of oddly dressed and enthusiastic Romantics poured through them. Courfeyrac was terrifically pleased at the sheer  _variety_ of costumes- there were ruffs and high cravats, hats à la Louis XIII and crowns and laurel wreathes, long hair and pompadours - in fact, clothes of every fashion except the current one. They all very cheerfully ignored the rain of garbage, which, as Courfeyrac rather trenchantly said, was sadly common at the Comédie-Française, since they were always staging Racine.

It was a bit harder to ignore the sabre-wielding policemen lining the Rue de Richelieu, but the fantastic beings whom the Romantics had transformed themselves into wove blithely through the columns around the theatre and through the antechamber with the statues of Moliere and Racine, unmoved by such every day figures as  _police officers_. Hugo and the Baron Taylor, who was the Royal Commisioner of the Comédie-Française and a Romantic, were on either side of the door. Hugo was giving out slightly nonsensical but very grandiose statements of encouragement and Baron Taylor was waiting anxiously for Courfeyrac. He pulled Courfeyrac aside at once. "This evening, you gentlemen are the claque—" or rather the group of audience members (usually paid) to lead the applause in spoken word theatres "—but one of the ticket ladies has been selling seats to our enemies. You are the chief this evening, you must make sure not to let the classicists hiss or boo, or the reactionaries will carry the day and get all Romantic plays banned from our theatre's repertoire. I won't be able to do anything to stop it, it was all I could do to get  _this_ play performed… we really  _must_ make this evening a success. Whip up the general enthusiasm, impress upon your fellows the seriousness of the effects of his evening- I am sure Monsieur Hugo has much more eloquent things to say on the matter, but do believe me. If we lose this battle we are well on our way to losing the war."

Hugo was very solemnly reciting one of his own poems to an enraptured Jehan and so did not comment, but Courfeyrac took his hat off and pressed it to his heart anyways. "You have the word of honor of your paladin of Romanticism, gentlemen. This band of brothers will applaud anything even vaguely Romantic. If there is so much as a daring caesura, they'll be on their feet at once."

The baron smiled at Courfeyrac in relief. "I always knew you were a good lad, Courfeyrac."

"You are kindness itself! Now, lock us in."

The baron did so. The little Latin Quarter Army had entertained themselves in line with a Romantic sing-along and saw no reason to stop once they had gotten locked into the theatre and set up camp in the cramped rows of seats in the orchestra. Courfeyrac, feeling daring, nudged Jehan and Bahorel in the ribs, and all three of them started in on the first few lines of the Marseillaise. " _Allons enfants de la patriiiiiiiiie—_ "

The Romantics took up the song with alacrity and much applause.

Courfeyrac was elated. There was not so very much difference between an artistic and a political revolution. As Jehan would say, just as there was very little difference between art and life. It was easy to see that, in the theatre, where each Romantic had turned themselves into living works of art.

It was not difficult for anyone to make the connection between 'La Marseillaise' and 'the Romantic captain dressed as Saint-Just' and all those with a political, republican bent meandered their way over to Courfeyrac once the singing was over and Courfeyrac had finished discussing with the battalion leaders which lines to applaud specifically. He left a good chunk of them up to the discretion of his lieutenants, and to his strong feeling that most of his lieutenants (and all of their subordinates) were going to be very drunk by the time the curtain rose. Mlle Mars could sneeze and expect a brilliant round of applause.

The picnicking was a bit difficult, considering how close together all the seats were, but they all thoroughly enjoyed themselves. Courfeyrac did a count of Amis before he dealt with other business. Bahorel, as usual, wandered away, and Joly and Bossuet got called away by some of Joly's friends in the medical school before Courfeyrac could see if Musichetta had actually come or not. Jehan was running around the theatre with some of bousingots and Combeferre got sucked into a discussion with some Polytechnicans who were very disgruntled that they had only had time to sneak out in their uniforms. Courfeyrac then sought out Drouet, partly to find out what was being said in the newspaper offices and partly because he found Drouet's company restorative and genuinely liked Drouet's air of child-like glee at the proceedings. Drouet seemed curiously shy but Courfeyrac could not think of any reason for him to be so. He already told Drouet everything he knew about the preparations and had taken pains to meet with Drouet at least once a week since preparations had begun. At a pause in their curiously meandering conversation, Drouet held out a parcel carefully wrapped in brown paper.

"What's this?" asked Corufeyrac, puzzled, and carefully stubbing out his cigarette in the end of a sausage no one had wanted.

Drouet smiled sheepishly. "The black sheep of my family form their own little flock, to be honest. There's Juliette, who I half expected to see here tonight, then there's me then there's my second cousin, who disgusted everyone by running off to be a drummer in the army of the Republic when he was twelve."

Courfeyrac had been unwrapping the package and, much to his surprise, a tricolor flag slid out into his lap.

"The pole got snapped by an Austrian canonball," said Drouet, looking pleased with Courfeyrac's dumbfounded expression, "but the flag remained intact. It was at Valmy. I have a feeling it will fly over another triumph of the Republic soon enough."

"I'm honored, Drouet," said Courfeyrac, gripping his hand.

Drouet ducked his head in embarrassment. "Come now Courfeyrac, I'm a journalist. I make a narrative out of the news, not the news itself. You'll be able to use it far better than I ever will."

"But," said Courfeyrac, tugging Drouet closer so as to embrace him properly, "in this new age of Romanticism, a play can be a battlefield. I wouldn't be surprised if the journalists helped start the next revolution. Anyone reporting the truth has to have seen it for themselves; it makes sense that you lot can provoke the revolutionary apocalypse that reveals the truth to the rest of the world."

Drouet was clearly enchanted with this idea, but folded Courfeyrac's fingers around the tricolor. "Perhaps we shall, but still. Put this to good use."

"Thank you."

"Of course, Saint-Just." Drouet saluted. "I expect to write brilliant reports of you someday."

"Don't worry," said Courfeyrac, taking care to wrap the tricolor securely in the brown paper once again, "I'll make your papers sell."

At that point, Jehan and several doublet-clad Romantics made their way through the tight rows of the Comédie-Française and Drouet went off to talk to some of his reporter friends. Courfeyrac stowed the tricolor under his seat.

"Courfeyrac," Jehan said, seriously putting his hands on Courfeyrac's shoulders. "We haven't any bathrooms."

"What do you mean, we haven't any bathrooms? The privies—"

"—are locked," squeaked Paulier, doing the newly popular dance-step of 'the-privies-are-locked' that was being everywhere imitated among the Romantic Army locked in the theatre.

"The keepers haven't come yet," Jehan said, in tones of very real anguish.

"Just…." Courfeyrac grinned and lit a cigarette in triumph. "I say we leave a very potent message for the classicists, as to just  _what_ we think of their literary opinions."

After consulting a scrawled map with several other captains, Courfeyrac managed to successfully determine which theatre boxes could suddenly be turned into bathrooms, and dispatched several Romantics to unburden themselves and express their rather pungent opinions in privacy. Courfeyrac was particularly pleased by this bit of tactical brilliance, and even kindly designated one box for any female Romantic who had dressed in drag for the evening. Speaking of female Romantics-

Courfeyrac had yet to see Musichetta, but that didn't necessarily mean she wasn't there. Courfeyrac had yet to see the musician Berlioz's famous mop of red curls either, but knew that Berlioz wouldn't miss the glory at having been at such a famous performance. After apologizing his way out of his seat in the middle of the second row, Courfeyrac made his way over towards where Joly and Bousset were very merrily drinking with a handful of other students.

"Hallo Saint-Just," said Joly, beaming and holding his arms out to Courfeyrac. "Embrace me, Gautier's been telling us all about how we're an army just like the Army of Italy."

Courfeyrac did so, causing the dark-haired Cherubino beside him to grin.

"Joly, I do believe you are a trifle foxed," said Courfeyrac, though he took a moment to grin at Mushcietta.

"Psh posh, I can be as affectionate with my friends as Musichetta is with hers," Joly replied, placing a rather sloppy kiss on Courfeyrac's temple. "I don't need alcohol to prove it, but Gautier- hallo where's Gautier gone?"

Bossuet grabbed at a passing red waistcoat. "Here's Gautier."

Bahorel looked deeply offended.

"No that wasn't him at all," said Bossuet. "He has changed faces on me."

"Well find Gérard de Nerval, where Gérard is, Gautier is," replied Joly. "You cannot go on red waistcoats alone, Bossuet."

"I acknowledge the fault-  _mea culpa, mea maxima culpa_  on the fashion front," Bossuet agreed sorrowfully. "To judge a man not by the content of his character, but the color of his waistcoat? Alas!"

"You certainly have sinned on the fashion front," said Courfeyrac. "Why didn't you like Musichetta make your costume?"

Bossuet had draped a bedsheet over his shirt and trousers in a rather pathetic imitation of a toga. Joly, on the other hand, was dressed in perfect imitation of Voltaire, complete with a powdered wig he had rented specifically for the occasion.

"He forgot about the costumes until last night when I reminded him," Joly replied, trying and failing not to laugh. "It's an impressive bit of forgetting, considering that all of Musichetta's orders for the past  _three months_ have been costumes for the Battle of  _Hernani_."

"It is a talent," Bossuet said modestly. "I just displayed it with Bahorel."

"Hmph," said Bahorel. "I can't say I found it particularly impressive."

"We were looking for Gautier though- where's Gérard?" Joly demanded, getting up a little unevenly, but managing to stay upright once he had done so. "Where is- ah ha, I see him, come on Bossuet! And Bahorel, you should come to, I think you have out-crimsoned Gautier's waistcoat. We'll put it to a vote."

" _In vino veritas_ ," replied Bahorel, and allowed himself to be borne off to another part of the theatre.

Courfeyrac grinned. "Well now, Musichetta, you accepted Joly's little present after all."

Musichetta looked, admittedly, a little flustered to be dressed in drag. "He was so eager about it really, how could I say no? Oh, I see you haven't lost your hat yet- turn around, let me see my handiwork, would you?"

Courfeyrac was pleased to oblige her. "I'm a good advertisement for your business, don't you think?"

Musichetta offered him a small smile. "Of course you are. With all the business we got Rosalie and I have enough clients now to start up our own little atelier of sorts. We are the best doublet-makers in the Latin Quarter, you know."

"I can believe it!"

"Speaking of, Rosalie  _said_ she was going to be here. Have you seen her?"

"No, but I have been admittedly sucked up in my own concerns. Ask Bahorel, if they are still on speaking terms this week."

Musichetta pulled a face. "Half the reason I agreed to come was because Rosalie said she would make at attempt at a trouser role too. Otherwise I would have just waited at home in a  _dress_ and not be showing my legs to all the wilder elements of the Latin Quarter."

"Come now," said Courfeyrac, "they're very nice legs, they oughtn't to be hidden away behind three layers of petticoats every day."

"You're too kind," Musichetta replied dryly. "Take care not to say that around Joly or he'll have an asthma attack."

"Well they are!"

"I know it may surprise you, but I'm not actually too keen on the whole idea of crossdressing. I don't like feeling this exposed. I prefer to be in the wings."

"If I promise not to look at your legs, may I at least have the pleasure of keeping you company until Rosalie, Bossuet or Jolllly reappear?"

Musichetta smiled at that. "Of course! I take such pleasure in your company. Come sit down."

She reached up a hand to him to pull him down to sit next to her and Courfeyrac, moved to gallantry, kissed her knuckles.

"Oh, that reminds me- how are things?"

"Complicated," said Courfeyrac, flopping down in the seat beside her and stretching out his bad leg. "I never realized how serious of a commitment it would be. I mean… it's not that it frightens me or anything, and we spend every evening together- devastatingly chastely, I must add- but, as Combeferre so devastatingly put it, it's a question of if I love one person enough to reject the love of society forever."

"Poor boy," said Musichetta, scratching his head affectionately.

"Mm, thank you," Courfeyrac replied, leaning into the hair petting like a particularly friendly kitten. "Oh hello, Paulier just caught on fire."

He had- or at least his hat had. Paulier had adorned himself in a multiplumed monstrosity that seemed to account for the extinction of an entire race of multicolored birds and had taken a position leaning against the side of the Salle de Richelieu. Though Paulier was tiny, his plumes rose to the edge of the boxes above him, and the embers of a bousingot's cigarette had dropped on said plumes and caused the hat to catch on fire without his noticing it at all.

The Romantics all applauded this spectacle.

"Is it art?" asked Musichetta, still scratching Courfeyrac's loose, uncurled hair.

"Eh, I think one could feasibly turn it into art," replied Courfeyrac, as Jehan and Jean the Bousingot solemnly took Paulier's hat away, burning brightly between them, and Gautier held a program for Racine's  _Athalie_  above it. Someone attempted to start a slow clap as the program burned. "The symbolism makes very little sense, but, then again, most of the audience is seeing it through the bottom of a wine bottle. We should applaud the fact that Jehan and Jean successfully managed to take off Paulier's hat at all."

"I suppose?" replied Musichetta. "That's the odd thing about Romanticism, the line between art and real life is so very thin. You're always tripping over it from one side to another. And it makes me think…."

"Yes?" prompted Courfeyrac.

Musichetta took off her tricorn hat and absent-mindedly smoothed her hair down. "It… it seems so much more likely now, doesn't it, that there will be a real revolution instead of just an artistic one. It's… it's exciting, but it frightens me all the same. Here there's only character assassination by your enemies, not hand-to-hand combat in front of the Hotel de Ville or wherever."

Courfeyrac put a comforting arm around her shoulder. "There very well might be, but I'll do everything in my power to make sure we're prepared for it- and hey, Enjolras is our leader."

"That is, admittedly, very comforting," Musichetta said, leaning against Courfeyrac's shoulder. "Are you at least…?"

"Absolutely smitten, yes, I'll admit that. Oh, and I have to thank you for my Saint-Just costume. You were right. Enjolras liked it enormously."

Musichetta hid a laugh in his shoulder.

"Oooh, you planned it that way, didn't you? I haven't the heart to scold you for it. To be honest, I feel like getting down on bended knee and kissing the hem of your skirt in worshipful gratitude."

"I'm not wearing a skirt, so we can dispense with the formality. Ah, there's Joly."

"We found Gauuuuuuuuuutier," Joly sing-songed, draped over Gautier who, probably thanks to the bottle in his hand, was beginning to look as rosé as his wine. For once, Gautier was without Gérard de Nerval, as the latter was dreamily studying the frescos on the ceiling and could not be bothered to leave the life of the mind for the life of the body. Joly was not without Bossuet, however, even though Bahorel kept attempting to drag Bossuet away to be bawdy with a group of increasingly drunken art students in the second balcony. "Gautier, tell Courfeyrac what you had to say about the Romantic Army."

"For that is what we are," Gautier said, attempting to strike a pose more appropriate to portentous declarations. "A Romantic Army. As Hugo said at the door today, we are the army of progress, fighting a war of ideas. In the Romantic Army, like the Army of Italy, everyone is young. For the most part, the soldiers haven't attained their majorities—"

"Even you can't be twenty-five, Courfeyrac, and you're our captain," Joly said, with a beatific smile.

"—and," Gautier continued on, unconcerned with the interruption, "the general-in-chief is twenty-eight. It is the age of Napoleon Bonaparte and it is the age of Victor Hugo."

"Madame Hugo's no Josephine though," said Bousset, shaking his head sorrowfully.

"Oh, there are far prettier French ladies than the Empress Josephine," Joly said, releasing Gautier to go sit in Musichetta's lap. He attempted to kiss her cheek but got her ear instead, which made Musichetta almost helpless with laughter. The talk turned generally to the prettier ladies of the Latin Quarter, which drew in the Polytechniciens and thus, Combeferre, though he didn't really seem interested in the discussion and instead engaged Musichetta in a sadly dry conversation about the print trade.

As Courfeyrac had feared, the conversation gradually wound its way toward mistresses, and from there sprouted the ever popular rumor of 'Courfeyrac will bleed to death from a leg wound if he has sex'. It had crossed from 'amusing joke' to 'active annoyance' several days after it had first made its appearance and Courfeyrac felt more-or-less like a cat who had just been shoved into a bucket of very cold water.

There was a brief pause in the raillery when the theare reopened, to applaud the arrival of the Romantic poet, Alfred de Vigny, and to jeer at the classicists in the balcony and the first gallery who dared to murmur at this, but the others found it so amusing they avoided Courfeyrac's continual attempts to change the topic of conversation.

"Look," Courfeyrac ended up saying, brandishing his representative-on-mission hat at Bossuet. "I may have borrowed your luck for an evening, but I swear to you only my leg got injured in the attempt, not my heart or any other bits involved in the pursuit of love. I'm still a devotee of Eros and Aphrodite."

"So which nymph has lead you into greater worship this week?" piped up Paulier, looking very pleased with himself and his extended classical allusion.

"Paulier," Courfeyrac said, genuinely appalled. "For heaven's sake, man, a gentleman never tells."

"But you…." Bossuet trailed off. "My God, I never realized that you actually have never flat out told me who you have slept with. I always operate on assumptions."

"It's called, 'manners' and 'respect for the other person', knee-head," replied Courfeyrac, setting his hat back on at a rakish angle. 'Knee-head', which meant a balding, set-in-their-ways classicist, was the latest Romantic insult, along with 'grocer', which was somehow a very grave insult, though no one quite knew why.

"So… have you ever actually slept with someone?" asked Paulier. He was usually a step or two behind everyone else and his visit to Spain had left him even more in the dust than usual.

Courfeyrac threw him an unamused look. "No, like Kant, I intend to die a virgin. What do you think, Paulier? Of course I have. I believe in free love."

"Then you don't gyser blood when—"

"For God's sake,  _no_."

"Then right now do you have—"

"I can't see why it's anyone's business but mine and my lover's."

"So you don't have one!"

"God, Paulier, you win- don't you know I'm wooing Enjolras?" replied Courfeyrac, which caused every single Romantic who knew Enjolras to start bellowing with laughter. Bossuet found it so hilarious he actually started to tear up. Paulier turned bright red and mumbled an apology for rudeness, as it really wasn't his business which grisette Courfeyrac was in love with for the moment.

At that point, however, the Romantic essayist Delphine Gay appeared in her box, in a white dress with a blue sash, looking exactly like she had in her Romantic portrait by Louis Hersent and the Romantics burst into applause. No more was said on the subject, though Bossuet clapped Courfeyrac on the shoulder and thanked him for the excellent joke, and chuckled at it intermittently throughout the evening. Mme Hugo arrived after that, and installed herself in the box opposite to Delphine Gay. The Romantics went positively wild and Mme Hugo, looking- if Courfeyrac was going to be honest- completely unmoved by the spectacle, inclined her head.

This was taken as a sign for the Romantics to return to their assigned seats. It was five minutes to seven and, at seven-o-clock precisely, the curtain rose and  _Hernani_ began.

Much to Courfeyrac's dismay, the first line, with its daring and unclassical enjambment: of 'Is he here already?' [knock] 'it's certainly the staircase' did not receive any applause. In fact, the first scene and the beginning of the second went completely uncommented upon. Courfeyrac was appalled and poked Jehan in the side.

"Nothing!"

"Juuuust wait," said Jehan, on the edge of his seat. He beamed at Courfeyrac. "Hernani is about to insult Dona Sol's guardian."

The actor playing Hernani, who was delivering probably one of the worst performances of his life, if Courfeyrac was going to be quite honest, exclaimed "Go get yourself measured for a coffin, old man!"

" _Bravo_!" cried Jean the Bousingot, applauding wildly. The other Romantics began to cheer and stamp their feet causing the bourgeois gentleman the seat behind Courfeyrac to express some concern for the safety of the building to his neighbor.

"After all, the Comedie-Francaise was built for the purpose of having an audience sit down and watch a play, not actively participate in it."

Jehan turned around and glared at him. "Oh, so you would rather we act like automatons, forever caught in the same, dull progression, never actively engaged in art?"

"I would rather you behave, young man," the bourgeois said coldly.

"I would rather  _think_ , instead of checking my brain along with my top hat," Jehan replied.

The bourgeois gentleman did not know quite what to say to that and so merely looked grumpy and stared at the stage, where Mademoiselle Mars was excellently rising to the occasion, even though the rest of the actors were performing like epileptics. The Romantics kept cheering at anything that seemed even vaguely exciting to them, but their enthusiasm, the wine they had consumed and Hugo's poetry had a remarkable effect. Several Romantics were outright weeping at Donna Sol's anguish.

Of course, the classicists were not as keen on the whole spectacle. Many of them hissed when Don Gomez, the old villain of the piece, began to ramble on about his ancestors. Fortunately, that monologue ended before the hissing turned into boos, and Jehan whirled around in his seat to shout rather virulent obscenities at all those who dared hiss behind him. The classicist from before was an unrepentant repeat offender and kept muttering to himself about the lack of respect from both Hugo and Hugo's friends.

At the end of Act III, Jehan had had it, snarled, "We show respect to the things that deserve it!", whirled around in his seat and punched the grumbler in the face. Several other Romantics were equally virulent; Courfeyrac saw Bahorel slap someone who had the audacity to look bored at the proceedings. There was some increasingly violent argument going on near one of the boxes about whether one of the lines had been ' _veillard stupide_ ' or ' _vieil as de pique_ ' ('stupid old man' versus 'old ace of spades'). Little Paulier had drunk his weight in claret, embarrassed by his gaffe with Courfeyrac, and was shrilling out, "Guillotine the knee-heads!" which Courfeyrac took to mean 'Let us condemn all the balding, old classicists to the death penalty'. Fortunately, it was now the intermission, so a number of audience members got up to puzzle out just what the Romantics in the pit meant by calling all the classicists 'grociers'. Courfeyrac was rather glad there was an intermission- if there hadn't been, the Romantics would have all hyperventilated by the end of the play.

He personally rather fancied a cigarette and wandered out to smoke it under the awning on the Rue de Richelieu. It was bracingly cold- a delightful contrast from the now overheated and somewhat pungent theatre- and Courfeyrac leaned against a marble pillar a bit away from the other audience members taking the air, to savor in private the tastes of both triumph and tobacco. Ostensibly, he was also supposed to be trying to remember which lines they had to make sure to cheer on, and which ones they needed to defend against the classicists to refresh the minds of his lieutenants, but Courfeyrac was really just gloating until he finished his cigarette.

Without really meaning to, he remembered the last time he had had to lean against a pillar at the Comédie-Française. How far he'd come since then and how close to Enjolras—

"Courfeyrac."

"Hallo Combeferre," said Courfeyrac, before taking a long, deep drag on his cigarette. He opened his eyes and grinned. "I didn't think you smoked."

"I don't. I wanted to have a word with you." Combeferre paused, looking somewhat awkward, for all the wonders of the blue velvet doublet Jehan had made him borrow. Combeferre looked uncertainly at Courfeyrac. "I think…."

"I know you do," Courfeyrac said, feigning puzzlement.

Combeferre took off his glasses and began polishing them. "If you will forgive the colloquial expression, Courfeyrac, I do believe that you are playing silly buggers with me."

"Yep!"

"I will be direct with you- Jehan… did not mean to, I'm sure, but he knows, and I know Jehan well enough to glean the truth from his behavior."

Courfeyrac smiled crookedly at Combeferre and then looked down at the glowing end of his cigarette. "Having traversed this revolutionary apocalypse, what have you discovered?"

"That the truth can be present but unnoticed, and that the truth will often not be believed in favor of whatever seems true instead."

Courfeyrac looked up and blinked at him. "I was playing silly buggers with you again, I hope you realize."

"I know," Combeferre said mildly. "No one would believe you capable of being serious at times, Courfeyrac—"

"Yes, and that's as much a defense as Jehan's tendency to hide behind his bizarre wardrobe, or Enjolras's seeming coldness."

Combeferre smiled faintly. "I know that now. I make no judgments, Courfeyrac, but I will repeat again, that this is not something to be continued lightly."

"Combeferre, has all this," Courfeyrac interrupted, waving his cigarette at the Comédie-Française, "failed to convince you of my seriousness of purpose? I am capable of planning things out and doing things right and, what's more, of taking things seriously. I… well, damn it all, if that doesn't suffice, you know me, I'm—"

"You are all heart."

"That was kind of you. And I... look." He lowered his voice and leaned forward, so that only Combeferre could hear. "Nisus couldn't have loved Euryalus more than I love him, so you don't have to worry. I mean, I am generally very charming and I don't think I'd ever get kicked out of society for this, but I do, in fact, love him enough so that that possibility- which I think is much slimmer than you are making it out to be- doesn't alarm me at all." Courfeyrac paused, a little taken aback by this revelation himself.

Combeferre blinked, then took off his glasses to polish them. "Courfeyrac, did you just realize that yourself?"

"Yes," Courfeyrac said, a little guiltily. "It's been coming on so gradually, though, you can't have expected me to notice once the revolution had really run its course. Its effects are clear enough."

"They are." Combeferre folded his arms and stared fixedly at a streetlamp, an Enjolraic gesture that made Courfeyrac feel slightly off-kilter. "It is, as is commonly reported, transformative. But Courfeyrac…."

"I know you care for him too," replied Courfeyrac, dropping the remnants of his cigarette to the ground and crushing the embers beneath his boot heel. "But please believe me when I say how serious I am about it. And I fancy that he's not indifferent to me. Enjolras told me something about living a constant lie but it's… it's not. It's the truest thing I've ever known, and if no one else recognizes it, then boo to them. Someday, once we've all traversed the revolutionary apocalypse the truth will out—"

"And if it does before the necessary revolution?"

Courfeyrac grinned. "That's the odd thing about the truth. Very often, it isn't believable. I told my aunt I was a Jacobin and she hit me with her fan and told me to stop playing silly buggers with her."

"It is your favorite game."

"Ah, you know me well at this point."

"I believe I do," Combeferre said slowly. He looked oddly at Courfeyrac, as if he were trying to make out the view through a stained glass window, then began looking quite sad. "This will be the hardest thing you will ever do."

"I'm prepared to bear it," Courfeyrac replied simply. "There's a reason Eros has wings- love lightens nearly every burden. It's still there, but one is never crushed by it."

"I believe it." Combeferre paused, then, in a startlingly tactile gesture, put a hand on Courfeyrac's shoulder. "Be careful. Enjolras is the best man I have ever known."

"I merely wish to make him happy."

"He never expected to be."

"That's no reason why he cannot."

Combeferre looked measuringly at Courfeyrac and said, "No." After a moment he added, "According to some strains of socialism, the progress of humanity through the ages is to happiness. Who says that it cannot be the endpoint? Why deny that we can have it now?"

"You don't seem entirely convinced."

Combeferre's smile was slightly bitter. "Perhaps someday I shall believe it myself. I can neither affirm nor deny anything. I can only observe and draw what conclusions I may. In my experience—" He cut himself off abruptly and said, "I think- Jehan has been… he has actually been very upset with me. We have not spoken of it specifically- I have not spoken about it with Jehan or with Enjolras but I realize I have… caused pain when intending to relieve it. It is only that Enjolras can be so absorbed with the ideal at times and you often seem to think that you can just change reality to whatever you like, and I have never myself been…." Combeferre shook his head. "No matter. I hope—"

"And there you have it in one," said Courfeyrac, putting his hand on top of Combeferre's and squeezing. "I hope. You hope. We all hope."

"Are you giving me a lesson in grammar?"

"In philosophy, my dear friend, though I have doubtless shocked you in my temerity in attempting to lecture you on either. I bow to your superior knowledge in all cases but this. We hope, we love, we live and in that is the progress of humanity that no society can truly stop."

"That is truly what you believe?"

"That is what I know to be true." He grinned at Combeferre, then gave into the Romantic impulse and hugged him. "Come now, the interval's almost over. Let's see what Hugo has in store for us, eh?"

What Hugo had in store was a gloriously nonsensical and Romantic plot wherein both protagonists unnecessarily poisoned themselves on their wedding night. The Romantic Army Courfeyrac had helped assemble went  _wild_ , demanding that Hugo come out to be applauded as much as any of the actors. Even the classicists were forced to applaud such a daring spectacle, if only to keep from getting heckled by the mob of cheering Romantics in the pit, as was the case of the classicist who had unwisely not changed seats since the first act and was sitting behind Jehan.

"Disgusting verses," the classicist muttered.

"You wouldn't know a good verse if it bit you in the nose!" Jehan snarled.

"Tch, what a  _vile_ metaphor," replied the classicist.

Jehan therefore took this as permission to punch him in the nose.

"That was certainly an eloquent commentary on his school of thought," said Courfeyrac, as the classicist collapsed into his seat.

"Right on!" said Bahorel, clapping Jehan on the shoulder. "Brilliant work- fingers tucked around the thumb, swift execution- bam! Right on the target!"

The actors were not entirely sure what to do in the face of this Romantic outpouring of sentiment. The king had been smirking his way the entire piece, just to make sure that everyone knew not to take him seriously, but was not sure if he could smirk in the face of a fistfight. Mlle Mars looked disdainfully down into the pit before taking a very regal curtsey and retreating to the wings. This was probably a good move on her part, as the Romantics went positively wild, chanting 'Hu-GO! Hu-GO!' and stomping and applauding until Courfeyrac himself began to fear for the structural integrity of the building. Several Romantics- including Jehan and Bahorel, who had teamed up against the classicists and his friends- were merrily pummeling all those who professed violent disagreement with the tenants of Romanticism. Fortunately, there were not many of them. Most of the audience was stunned and a large number of spectators were still weeping over the ending.

Romanticism had won.

It was not only possible to write and stage a play that rejected all the rules of the theatre; it was actually a good idea to do so. It was possible to touch people without adhering to the idea of life the Academie espoused. Life could be wild and unexpected and full of passion, even if it was kept neatly in line in rhyming alexandrines. The play had been marvelous and the Romantic Army was delighted with their own efficacy in promoting and defending it.

The audience surged out of the theatre, past two Romantics gamboling around the bust of Racine in the foyer and shouting, "Here's one in the eye for you!" and into the Place Colette.

Courfeyrac managed to struggle out of the crowd and wander around the building onto the Rue de Richelieu, while clutching the package with the tricolor to his chest.

Jehan stumbled out after and favored Courfeyrac with a disgustingly bloody smile. "That was satisfying. Are you off to tell Enjolras what happened?"

"Yes." Courfeyrac fished his handkerchief out of a coat pocket and passed it to Jehan. "Here, you need this more than I do. But, ah, Jehan, I was talking to Combeferre earlier, and he…."

Jehan looked distractedly after a group of Romantics shouting out lines of Lamartine. "Hm? Combeferre… oh, how is he doing?"

"He seemed almost bitter," said Courfeyrac.

Jehan frowned. "I had thought… well that confirms it. I knew there was something else at play here than just concern over society. I may be wrong, but I think the reason he's been so insistent on Enjolras not doing anything is because he doesn't want to do anything himself."

"You've lost me."

"I mean that Combeferre's just been flinging all these rationales at you two because they're the ones he has to repeat to himself," Jehan replied, matter-of-factly. "At least, that's what I see. Enjolras actually  _doing_ something means that Combeferre has to acknowledge something he thought he'd settled with himself- and probably settled between themselves- ages ago. Enjolras didn't turn out to be ignoring it the way Combeferre is, which upsets Combeferre, but ignoring it or not acknowledging it until it was relevant doesn't make it any less true for either of them. I still don't think Combeferre was being very reasonable, to be honest."

Courfeyrac had been vaguely suspicious himself, but had been too alive to the gravity and the repercussions of his particular passion to think Combeferre had a personal stake in it. "You didn't think he was reasonable? He had reason upon reason, all justified—"

"Well no, they were justified only by society and society is so awfully corrupt. I don't think that Combeferre was being reasonable  _at all._ The truth's the truth, no matter how much it disturbs those that aren't prepared for it. Society's approval or disapproval doesn't make it any more or less true. It's just a fact, which ought to be accepted- like with statistics! Oh I've fallen quite in love with statistics, it's marvelous. There's so much you can tell from them, it's another form of poetry. But…." He frowned and tilted his head to the side, taking the moment to flick his fringe out of his eyes. "What was I… oh yes. It's just what  _is_ Courfeyrac, and  _is true_ and I don't see why it ought to cause someone like Combeferre problems."

"Because," said Courfeyrac, "he's much more aware of the world than the rest of us. He does tent to be right—"

"He's right that society doesn't like it," Jehan said dismissively, "but that's  _it_ and Courfeyrac- we're on the verge of dismantling society altogether. You just watch, we'll tear down the old and build something glorious and new."

"And Romantic," added Courfeyrac, "though that goes without saying."

"And one of the central tenants of Romanticism is to reject society's opinions," Jehan said firmly, putting a hand on Courfeyrac's shoulder. "It's a corrupt and outdated system that will be changed. One day very soon, we'll show the world the truth, and they won't be able to hide from it or reject it. And," added Jehan, lowering his voice, "if you have something that's true for you, that you can live and die for, and no one else recognizes it, well more fool's them. You've been enlightened. The rest of them will just have to catch up."

Courferyrac gave way to impulse and kissed Jehan's temple.

Jehan playfully punched him in the shoulder. "Go on. I know it's not  _me_ you want to be kissing. But don't worry, I know it's a truth whose time has yet to come, sad as it is to say it."

Courfeyrac managed to clamber into a fiacre with some Romantics too bosky to walk back to the Latin Quarter and asked to be dropped off in front of Enjolras's building. He had befriended the concierge very early on into his friendship with Enjolras and had more-or-less free license to come and go as he pleased, as long as he took a few minutes to flirt the elderly concierge into a good mood.

Since Courfeyrac was in an excellent mood himself, this was not very difficult at all and he soon waltzed his way into Enjolras's apartment. The door was cracked open slightly, after all and Courfeyrac took this as an invitation to enter. Enjolras had a two room apartment, though the second room served as a sort of general munitions storehouse and library (most of the books were the ones Combeferre could not fit into his room at Necker) and the main room was predictably Spartan. The original wallpaper had been completely covered by maps, newspaper clippings and a large, full-color print of the Rights of Man and Citizen. Aside from the bed, there was a chest of drawers, a set of bookshelves, a cupboard, and a table with two chairs, one of which Enjolras had drawn to the fireplace.

He was sitting in said chair, looking thoughtfully at the fire, a book balanced on his knee, and one had resting on top of the pages to keep it open. Courfeyrac leaned in the doorway a moment, enjoying the sight. There was an almost melancholy look to Enjolras at times, though it disappeared the moment he roused himself into action and in the flickering red and gold light of the fire and Courfeyrac gave himself a moment's Romantic indulgence to watch the way the firelight seemed to caress Enjolras's pale cheek and the waves of his golden hair. The urge to caress them himself became over-powering and Courfeyrac stepped into the room.

"Having a good evening?"

Enjolras came out of his reverie at once, closing his book and standing to face Courfeyrac. "I trust it went well?"

"Brilliantly," Courfeyrac said, beaming and closing the door behind him. "Romanticism carried the day!" As soon as he was close enough, he reached out a hand to cup Enjolras's cheek, and kiss him. He kept it light and gentle, despite the fact that Enjolras was resting his hands on Courfeyrac's hips. "I can say with some authority that we won the battle- one can, indeed, produce a Romantic play that speaks more to the public than a classical one ever could. My aunts and their circle were even getting emotionally invested in it, and they usually save that sort of passion for gambling."

Enjolras glanced at the brown paper package in Courfeyrac's arms.

"Ah ah ah, that comes later in my narrative," Courfeyrac said, sticking his hat on Enjolras's head and dragging the other chair towards Enjolras's. "It's a thrilling one, full of locked privies, fist-fights with classicists, costumes, mistaken identities, and near asphyxiation from enthusiasm."

"It sounds suitably Romantic," Enjolras said, sitting down and smiling at Courfeyrac. Even after months of exposure, Courfeyrac's breath still caught in his throat at that smile. Somehow or other, Courfeyrac managed to spin out a very credible and highly entertaining account of the battle and, when he had arrived at a good stopping point, added, "And Drouet gave me something… hold on, close your eyes for a moment."

Enjolras raised a blond eyebrow.

"It's a good surprise, I swear," Courfeyrac said, languidly rising from his chair and stretching. "Eyes closed- good." Courfeyrac very carefully snuck into Enjolras's other room, where he knew Enjolras kept a few poles that they all kept meaning to turn into pikes. Courfeyrac grabbed one and loosely attached the flag to it.

"Open your eyes, now," Courfeyrac said, striking a pose with the tricolor. "Ta da!"

There was such warmth in Enjolras's gaze that Courfeyrac felt himself blushing.

"Where did you get that?"

"Drouet- his second cousin was a dummer boy at Valmy." Courfeyrac passed the flag to Enjolras with a caressing, "I love you."

Enjolras turned from his fascinated examination of the flag with a faint smile that was none-the-less dazzling. "Do you?"

Courfeyrac grinned at him. "Yes."

Enjolras regarded him thoughtfully and then turned his attention back to the flag. "Courfeyrac, do you know entirely what you mean when you say that? You know my sentiments towards you and hearing you say that has made me…." He trailed off and let his fingertips ghost over the tricolor. "Made me far happier than I ever expected to be, but I do not hold you to it if you find that you did not mean to say it. There is a measure of contentment in simply being with you; there is, admittedly, an overpowering joy in loving you and being loved by you, but—"

"I mean that… that I love you like I love Provence," Courfeyrac managed. He flushed at his own ineloquence and tried, painfully to stumble through an explanation- of why he loved Provence, with the mountains distant, dark shadows at first, half-hidden in fog but protective in their green curves once the sun had come out; the red-tiled roofs of the houses, the scrub bushes flung with graceful abandon over pale rock no one would expect to give life as well as it did; the lush, green rolling hills that burst into magnificent color in the summer; the fields of lavender and sunflowers, swaying in the mistral but always reaching to the sun- and oh the sun! How Courfeyrac loved the Provencal sun, its gentleness, its warmth, how lying down in a patch of it was at once a kiss and a caress, how it brought out the vivid colors that never left Courfeyrac's memory, how it welcomed all, thawed them out and left them open and smiling and given to hospitality because one could not do otherwise when living in such sunlight. As he tried to fit all those images into words, the flood of light, color and feeling that bewildered his senses with happiness, he interleaved his fingers with Enjolras, which was a thing he had never done before.

Enjolras, though listening, had been looking at their interleaved hands. The flag was still half-draped over his shoulder and that, combined with the fall of his golden hair, hid his expression from view.

In some desperation, Courfeyrac cut off a stumbling explanation of lavender honey and vineyards. He pressed their hands together and kissed Enjolras through the tricolor, the fabric tasting faintly of dust and gunpowder, hiding the familiar pressure of Enjolras's lips. "There," he said, his voice trembling slightly because he was not used to the weight and seriousness of this sort of love, "I love you like that."

"Do you?" Enjolras said, with a slow-blooming smile.

Courfeyrac pulled a face. "Oh, being flippant, are you? I still can't tell sometimes when you're joking and when you're being serious."

"I am being very serious," said Enjolras, lightly stroking the short hair on the nape of Courfeyrac's neck and sending an involuntary shiver down Courfeyrac's spine. "You did not need to say anything."

"You would have understood- yes, but you see Enjolras, I often don't realize a thing until I say it. I quip to clear my head. I should have just kissed you through the flag first, shouldn't I?" He was still having trouble understanding how to express the strength and endurance of his feelings. He had never recognized his feelings for Provence as love before, for all that he knew he had been infatuated with Paris. It had endured so long and become such a necessary part of his life- as present as the sunrise, as unspoken and understood as his republican ideals- that it seemed odd to have to try and categorize it. It  _was_ , that was all.

Enjolras kissed him, so tenderly Courfeyrac had to bury his face against Enjolras's shoulder afterwards. The cloth of the tricolor rasped against his cheek. Nothing more really needed to be said; Courfeyrac clung to Enjolras with a happiness so intense he felt close to tears and Enjolras held him tightly, pressing his lips to Courfeyrac's hair, unwilling now to ever let him go.

Once Courfeyrac felt himself capable, he looked up and kissed Enjolras again, gently at first, one hand still interleaved with Enjolras's, the other stroking his cheek, until Enjolras very firmly tugged him forward by the nape of his neck and took automatic control of the situation. By now, he and Courfeyrac had developed their own dialect of small sounds and movements that said more than either of them could otherwise express. Enjolras expressed himself so eloquently in general, it was not surprising he could communicate so articulately by gesture. Courfeyrac understood what Enjolras was trying to express the moment he tried to express it and Enjolras, who always managed to understand whatever was being said, even if he seemed otherwise occupied, knew almost at once what Courfeyrac said in return.

It was a seamless nonverbal communication, and so when Courfeyrac began unbuttoning Enjolras's waistcoat, Enjolras returned the favor. Courfeyrac, half-afraid to ruin something so unspeakably precious, pulled off Enjolras's shirt with trembling hands. "Enjolras, will you allow…."

Enjolras smiled and smoothed the fringe out of Courfeyrac's eyes. "Yes."

They continued on the conversation to an extent that they never had before, but arrived at the same point, not quite clinging to each other in the pre-dawn light, half-illuminated by the flicking of the candles and the fire, but pressed together, each equally playing their part and yet each inseparable from the other. When at last, all costumes were stripped away, when everything separating them had been discarded as unnecessary, everything seemed almost matter-of-fact to Courfeyrac. Of course Enjolras would look like a marble statue but still shiver at Courfeyrac's touch on his bare skin, of course Enjolras's hands would be slightly cold and he would have no idea what he was doing but manage to keep the same pace, of course they would end in bed together and there would be a moment of confusion as to who was going where, which ended up as the most enjoyable impromptu wrestling match Courfeyrac had ever experienced and of course the flag would the only thing Courfeyrac was inadvertently wearing-

And when there was, at last, only them together, nothing more needed to be said.

They anticipated and understood each other, they talked without speaking and for several very precious minutes, which Courfeyrac felt that he could never in his life forget, they simply loved and that was enough.

After Courfeyrac had helpfully cleaned them both up, he curled around Enjolras, and lazily stroked Enjolras's side. It occasionally caused Enjolras to shiver, which made Courfeyrac feel so smug he had to stop and airily ask Enjolras if he should get up and tend to the fire.

Enjorlas's only response was to pull Courfeyrac up to him and to press a light, almost ticklish kiss to Courfeyrac's hairline. Courfeyrac nestled against Enjolras in a state of languorous contentment. It was a pleasure almost deeper than sex. Courfeyrac felt himself drifting off at first, then shifted and said, "Enjolras?"

"Mm?"

"I know I don't need to say it, but I love you." Courfeyrac pressed a kiss to Enjolras's shoulder. "And I'm not… I know what that means. If that makes sense?"

Enjolras was quiet a moment. "It does."

Courfeyrac did not know how else to say that he understood that, to Enjolras, this was a life-long commitment, a passion that could not be extinguished any more than his republican ideals. What he wished to say was that he agreed and thus what came out was, "I'm a second son, I won't have to marry- but you're an only son, aren't you?"

"Yes." Enjolras was pressing light, absentminded kisses to Courfeyrac's hair and so did not immediately realize a further response was required. "My parents are both dead and I intend for my property to become a hospital for the poor once I no longer have need of it."

Courfeyrac trailed a hand down Enjolras's side, giddily delighted by the shiver it provoked. "And so…."

"I could not marry in any case. It would not be fair." Enjolras brushed the fringe off of Courfeyrac's forehead and musingly pressed his lips to Courfeyrac's temple. "You are the only _person_ I could love like this. The idea of this—" he tightened his arms around Courfeyrac "—with anyone else fills me with abhorrence. It would be a mere distraction not…."

"Not a promise," said Courfeyrac, shifting so that he could press a kiss to where he thought Enjolras's heart might be. "Not a perfect agreement or a pledge…."

"No." He buried his face in Courfeyrac's hair.

"It can be done if we go about it the right way," said Courfeyrac. "Do you know Fiévée? I've seen him around, he used to write for the  _Journal de débats_  before helping to found  _Le National._ He lives with the playwright Leclercq. I mean, I realize their arrangement worked out because they formed their household under Bonaparte, and Bonaparte didn't see anything wrong with it- I mean, he couldn't when Cambacérès was notorious for flirting with his page boys, and Bonaparte wasn't enough of an idiot to lock up the man who wrote a good chunk of the Code Civile for him, and viola, decriminalization of homosexuality- in the eyes of the law if not entirely the eyes of society- I'm rambling."

"It's alright," said Enjolras.

"What I mean to say," Courfeyrac pressed on, "is that- is that I take this as seriously as the two of them take their arrangement. And… they live openly together in a ménage. Their arrangement is so domestic it doesn't upset anyone. Hell, my ultra-royalist aunt receives them as a couple, or she did until Fiévée got really militant about censorship, as well he should. If we pass it off as a close friendship at first then… someday perhaps… I mean, it won't be seen as odd if two delegates or two lawyers who are old friends live in the same building in Paris, if we are sufficiently  _respectable_ ,. Then, maybe, one day, when we have a republic, it won't be seen as odd at all. We'll rethink all the odd social rules we have and all the arbitrary boundaries other people insist on. We can be happy and people won't be bothered with how or why we are. All that will matter is that we are two citizens exercising our rights like any other."

"The republic of virtue," said Enjolras, with a smile that enthralled Courfeyrac utterly.

"Exactly! The right to be happy, the right to be free, the right to live in truth—"

Enjolras pulled him up for a kiss. "Someday," he murmured, against Courfeyrac's lips. "Someday soon. We will make sure of it." And his kiss was the most eloquent truth Courfeyrac had ever known.


End file.
